


Installation

by goldengan, shadraquarium



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Body Horror, Canon Compliant, Canon Universe, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Eventual Happy Ending, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by Art, Kidnapping, M/M, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Post-Canon, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Horror, Psychological Torture, Psychological Trauma, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2020-09-19 01:35:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20322931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldengan/pseuds/goldengan, https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadraquarium/pseuds/shadraquarium
Summary: This is the first time he's touched Connor like this. It's not a quick clap on the back, or a hug that lasted over two minutes only to never be discussed. Hank's thumbs caress Connor's cheekbones, under his eyes. Hank's own eyes don’t look anywhere but Connor's face and, for that, Connor is thankful. He's naked enough under Hank's touch. It's completely disarmed him. Connor's cold and calculated exterior falls away.“I don't—” Hank starts, his right hand sliding down to Connor's neck. “I'm… I'm not hurting you?” Connor's LED shifts from red to yellow.~**PLEASE READ TAGS**The main theme of this fic is non-consensual body modification and PTSD.





	1. Fear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so excited to Finally share this fic with everyone!
> 
> Thanks to my friends and betas [V](https://twitter.com/apervertedsquid) and [Bri](https://twitter.com/BriWeiCreative)!  
I also wouldn't have been able to make this without [Shad](https://twitter.com/raviquarium)! They helped me flesh out the fic and also provided incredible art!
> 
> **PLEASE READ THE TAGS**
> 
> and enjoy ~

There is always a light source, he reasons with himself. There will not be a thought otherwise - he needs to stay calm. There’s no way that there isn’t a door, a window, a computer, a monitor, something. He refuses to believe there is even the potential to be in complete and total darkness.

No.

His HUD lights up in his mind palace, but it is not the same. It’s not true light. It doesn’t illuminate an area. It only exists inside himself. But it being available matters little as the HUD offers none of its usual guidance. He already knows the information it’s flashing: global positioning and communicative services are offline; his limbs are not available for use; his LED isn’t working, completely greyed out and forming no light; his diagnostic program cannot find a reason for any of it; and that the only component functioning at full capacity is his thirium pump.

Every single piece that animates him, gives him knowledge, that shows him as alive, is disconnected or offline or unavailable and he has no idea why.

It hits him, then, that he cannot even scream. His vocal modulator is disconnected. Like everything else.

Then, without want or warning, he is thrust into the Zen Garden. Or, what’s left of it. 

No floor, no paths, no trees, no plants, and certainly no walls. And, terrifyingly, no exit. Kamski always left an exit, yes, but he knew all too well that he ripped it out along with everything else. He had to terminate what made him the way he was. What he was created to accomplish. What he was created to be. The Garden was a constant reminder whenever he closed his eyes for stasis. He’d much rather see darkness than whatever they planted in his past.

Or so he thought. 

He’s in darkness, now. Unaware of his surroundings and location. Stuck in the middle of a piece of himself he destroyed. Now there’s nothing. It’s empty. Barren. Blank.

Hank said once that he felt like that on the worst days of his depressive episodes. Those words, the idea that someone who filled him with so much happiness could be so empty? It cut deep, cut past his plastisteel endoskeleton. His diagnostics proved that incorrect but why else would it hurt so badly?

“There’s nothing you can do,” Hank said. His eyes lacked their normal luster as he stared straight ahead, slumping on the couch, beer in hand. He had been doing so well with maintaining a healthier life, but feeling “empty” was not quantifiable, there was no way to help. Hank was breathing normal, heartrate normal, temperature normal. His body worked. How could Hank be helped with something that didn’t physically exist?

“I want to help.”

Hank smiled. But, no… that too was empty. “I appreciate it. But Con—”

“Connor.”

His name, spoken from far outside his body, forcefully booted him from the Zen Garden.

His HUD blinks clear lettering as his eyelids close and open to true light filtering in fuzzy. The letters don’t spell anything at first. Clear as they are, they jumble together, creating nonsense. Then, as more of the room comes into view, the letters form words. They inform him that thirium and lubrication are exiting his body for an unknown reason. He’s received a similar notification in the past after crying. But, after that, lubrication in androids are used to coat an androids insides, wires and thirium will overheat without it, and to operate genital components. As he never gave himself the opportunity to pick one out, that must mean…

His eyes dart around his body and land on his left arm. Or, where his left arm would be. It’s gone. Without Connor’s input or the proper CyberLife equipment, any component would need to ripped out. The socket is craggy, plastic and wires and thirium and lubricant coat the opening and his entire left side. He’s open. Exposed. Lubricant and thirium dripping onto the floor.

As he watches and hears the dripping, he realizes two things. One, he is naked. Not in the android sense – his synthskin is covering his body – but in the human one. Two, that he cannot move his head. He can finally see and hear, but when footsteps stalk towards him, he cannot move to view the source.

The footfalls quicken, sure in their heaviness but clunky with thick soles. 

How can he leave? How can he get out of here? How can he disable the person stalking towards him? How can he exit? How can he harm his captor? How can he escape? There has to be a way out. There needs to be a way out. There _must_ be a way out!

It didn’t matter the words he uses, there are no preconstructions of any query. Nothing online. No way to help himself. No way to get help. No way to scream. No way to move. No way out.

_Click._

No preconstructions. 

_Clack._

No help.

_Click._

No voice. 

_Clack._

No way out.

And one final _click_.

More than once he thought of who he was after he deviated. More than once he wondered what his purpose was, what his existence meant and if it mattered at all. More than once he thought of dying. The price of mortality. Of sentience. Of desires. 

Never once had Connor considered what it would take for him to desire death.

**~~~**

_“When you walk for a long time do your legs do that phantom movement thing?”_

_Connor tilted his head; his focus was straight ahead, watching Sumo do his business. “Can you explain?”_

_“You know,” Hank said as he switched Sumo’s leash in his opposite hand, “when your muscles don’t stop the movements you’ve been doing for a long time and it feels like you’re still moving?”_

_“I don’t have muscles, Hank.”_

_His laugh, loud and abrupt and quick, startled an old woman on a bench. Hank didn’t notice. Connor couldn’t stop his grin at that. Hank had been down the previous three days, so it was lovely to see him lively. “You mean you don’t have muscles “as such.””_

_A comment on the past used to sting. Connor learned that Hank didn’t mean anything by it, so he refused to be upset. “Are you ever going to let that go?” Maybe._

_Hank shoved him with a shoulder, “You know I’m just messin’ with ya, Con.”_

_Connor knew this by now – he’s lived with Hank for months. Sure it’s… not in the way he wants, but being alive isn’t about getting what you want. Hank had expressed this fact many different ways and on multiple occasions. The words felt engraved inside his chest chassis with each thought. Repeated over and over. Painful and deep._

_Connor smiled, he hoped Hank couldn’t tell it was fake. “I know.”_

_“So you don’t know what it’s like to have a body part on pins and needles?”_

_Hank won’t let the point go._

_“Having limbs offline or removed might be the closest feeling.” Hank made a noise at that, he sounded tense. “If you really want to know, you can ask Markus.”_

_Hank grumbled as he twisted his fingers around the leash, something about “fuckin’ androids.”_

_Their walk continued on without fanfare. Connor could tell Hank wanted to speak. Eventually he did, but only once they’ve headed towards home. “Aren’t you curious about why I’m askin’?”_

_“I assume you want to know if I’m able to feel uncomfortable.” Connor let himself stare at Hank then, to see what he already knew to be true. Hank was drenched in sweat. His workout clothing was heavy with dark, wet stains around the neck and armpits and chest and stomach. Connor didn’t enjoy seeing Hank uncomfortable, but he did enjoy the fact that Hank wanted to get healthier. He’d help Hank in any way he could to accomplish that. “Hate to break it to you, but no.”_

_Hank rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t hide his smile. Connor’s chest tightened at the sight. His eyes flit away. He hoped Hank wouldn’t notice he had smiled too. A real one._

_“Well, thanks.” Hank said, his voice lightened dramatically. A severe change from his previous annoyance. “I know you’re a busy guy. I, um, appreciate you coming along when you can.” Connor felt Hank’s eyes on him, but the man turned away too quick. He cleared his throat before he said, in his usual voice, “It’s nice to have someone around that doesn’t try to piss on peoples’ tires,” which dripped with sarcasm and self-deprecation._

_“Hank, if you have a suggestion for a new biocomponent, all you have to do is ask.”_

_Connor doesn’t understand why Hank responds to him in certain ways, his social suite would sometimes offer a blaring INCONCLUSIVE for his troubles, but Connor did know that Hank would blush at that. He couldn’t explain it, but he liked seeing Hank flustered. _

_Hank tried to hide a sputtering cough with a wipe at the sweat collecting on his upper lip. His breathing evened out before Hank continued with, “Is that so?”_

_Connor nodded, his smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. “But if you’re adamant for me to “piss on peoples’ tires”, you’ll need to pay for the component.”_

_Hank laughed openly at that. The hand unoccupied with Sumo’s leash, the one between the two of them, landed on Connor’s shoulder and jostled him. It lingers, fingers gripping Connor lightly, before falling away. “I’ll keep that in mind, you fuckin’ smartass.”_

_That was the longest Hank had touched him in months. It was still a minute and thirty-three seconds under the time they hugged in front of the Chicken Feed, but it was something. _

**~~~**

The sky is an oily black. No stars permeate the thick layer of light from the city. Even the suburbs, far enough away to deaden the sounds of Detroit, cannot escape the human created darkness. Connor noticed this each time he found himself at the Manfred mansion and each time he didn’t let those thoughts linger.

Connor inhales deep, shoulders rising. 

He decided on walking to the party to clear his head. It worked so well in the past that he found it didn’t matter if it felt “relaxing.” If he just kept moving, if he didn’t stop, if he looked straight ahead, then none of those thoughts could infiltrate or weigh him down.

Connor exhales, quick enough that his upper body goes slack, no doubt crinkling his suit jacket. Hank would tell Connor not to care. “It’s just a party,” he’d most likely say if he knew of Connor’s current internal monologue, “relax.” Connor’s LED stays yellow despite his desire otherwise.

Hopefully he’d see Hank soon.

At first Connor assumes he’s hearing an optimistic trick of his auditory processors. But, no, Hank’s cell phone location confirms he is a block and a half away. The telltale squeak of Hank’s car, now that he knows it’s real, sends sparks up and along his chassis. His worry and dread fizzle and fall away, his light now blue blue Blue, as he runs to meet Hank.

Connor all but skids to a stop by the time Hank exits his car and looks around himself, brows furrowed in concentration. His eyes brighten when he spots Connor. There’s no way to stop the smile that forms on Connor’s face. All the emotional restrictions he sets for his job never work with Hank, no matter how he sets the parameters. Usually it makes Connor panic. Tonight? He can’t bring himself to care.

“Well!” Hank’s features slide to a relaxed state, eyes darting all over Connor’s face, “Look who’s happy to see me.”

Connor would normally comment on that, in fact a response was on the tip of his vocal modulator, but now he notices what Hank is wearing. Connor explained that this wasn’t a political or charity event, that it is supposed to be “for fun”. “You can go comfortable,” he told Hank. 

It’s not as if Hank wasn’t dressed in a way that looked comfortable, but he did look… Connor couldn’t take his eyes off him.

“Oh,” Hank looks down at himself, “is this too casual?”

Why did he always assume the worst? 

“No, no.” Connor shakes his head, “I just,” he needs to save himself; he’s been staring at Hank for far longer than is socially acceptable, “I don’t think I’ve seen you so dressed up before.”

Hank snorts, rolls his eyes, smoothing down his polo shirt – buttons straining against the swell of his stomach enticingly – and sliding his hands into his dress pant pockets – which only draws Connor’s eyes to those thick, powerful but soft thighs. “Hardy har har.”

“Seriously,” Connor makes sure their eyes meet, he wants Hank to see he’s not kidding, “I appreciate it. You look nice.” 

“Sure, sure.” Hank waves the words away.

Connor doesn’t let his heart sink. No, not tonight.

The walk from the car to the mansion isn’t long. Enough time to exchange pleasantries, bump elbows every other step, adding kindling to the flame inside Connor.

_“Don’t you think that’s… inappropriate?”_

Markus’ voice would ring, unbidden and unwelcome, in his head when he got too close to Hank. While he was fortunate that Markus told Connor the truth, that Hank’s relationship with Connor is not unlike Carl’s and Markus’, that doesn’t mean the words don’t sting each time.

Their eyes meet and Connor wants nothing more than to keep staring. A recording or a picture were just placeholders for the all too real view Connor wishes he was able to see whenever he fancied. Then, because pleasure and pain were supposedly not dissimilar, Hank smiles and Connor’s world is filled with an ocean of crystal-clear blue.

_“You said he hated androids.”_

Connor looks away.

He knows he needs to reign it in – Hank will never see Connor in the way Connor wants. That needs to be fine. He needs to allow his life to move on despite this pain. But, right now, he doesn’t want pain. He simply wants to enjoy spending time with Hank after being away for over three weeks.

And, not to mention, he is to be away for two whole months. The longest he will ever be away from Hank. This is his last opportunity to spend time before his departure.

Connor needs to make it count.

Their shoes _click_ and _clack_ against the ornate tile as they walk through the front room. Or, they attempt to, but Josh intercepts the pair. He slides in front of Connor easily, his LED flashing yellow, ignoring Hank as he speaks plainly about another dead android body.

“Another corrupter device?”

Josh nods, solemn. “I know we’re supposed to be,” he waves his hand over his head; his deadpan motion in opposition to this gathering, “but I thought you should know.” Connor doesn’t know when or how or to whom, but he will ask later. If Josh presented the issue in this manner than it wasn’t pressing.

“Wait,” both the androids eyelines turn to Hank, “you talkin’ about those, erm, little machines that roofie androids?”

Josh takes a step back, all the better to look Hank in the eye. Connor can tell he is startled at Hank’s assessment but mostly impressed. So impressed that his LED slides to a calm blue. “Why didn’t we think of that?”

“Of what?” Hank’s eyes ping pong between the androids, brows and forehead creasing in confusion.

“We’ve been needing a way to explain the situation properly to the humans.”

“You don’t… call ‘em “the humans” when talking to them, do you?”

Connor snorts. Hank laughs, always immediate whenever Connor lets out one of those terrible noises, his eyes bright and shoulders shaking while he stares at Connor. Josh is certainly offended. Connor knows Josh would _never_ but it’s funny.

Josh hums, obviously not agreeing with the jocularity between the two. “Is that what your department calls the devices? “Android roofies”?”

The protocol Connor has in place not to roll his eyes at Josh nearly fails.

Hank shrugs, seeming oblivious to Josh’s antagonism, and says, “We actually call them ABDs, android blocking devices, but I just call ‘em like I see ‘em.”

“We’ll have to use that,” Josh looks loathe to admit it, but it is concise and easy to understand – both the colloquial and the formal. Josh takes another step backwards as he says, “Please excuse me,” and leaves.

Hank shakes his head, eyes on the side door Josh disappeared through, “I can see what you mean about him.”

Connor nudges Hank with a sharp elbow to the ribs, knowing full well it’ll make Hank hiss in discomfort. “I don’t go to your job and spill what you say at home.”

“You damn well could!” Hank says between laughs, rubbing as his ribs all the while. “It would be fuckin’ hilarious.”

Connor hums, his eyes narrow in on Hank’s. He’s only minimally upset but he’s curious if Hank will apologize. Hank has made it a point never to do so. Or… so he says. He does often apologize to Connor. Each time his voice is small, soft, warm. Sincere. Connor plays the ‘Apology Folder’ after arduous days at work.

“Anyway,” Hank sighs, his hand falling from his bruised side, “you said you weren’t working. I thought this was a party.”

“It is!” 

Markus appears from the same door Josh left from, all smiles and clean-cut clothes and an all-around personable appearance, especially now that he remained LED-less. The door slides closed as the android leader glides over to Hank and shakes his hand. “It’s been quite a while since we’ve last seen each other.” That look he’s giving Hank… Connor has seen it many times. It’s most prevalent when Markus disengages from the handshake. So the party _was_ a lie. “How have you been?”

Hank’s smile is sincere, a trait Markus is currently lacking, as he says, “Can’t complain. Been keeping busy. Well,” Hank turns to Connor after he places a hand on his shoulder, “not as busy as you’re keeping this one.” His fingers pat on Connor’s back. It’s difficult to pay attention.

Until Markus levels Connor with a sideways glance. It’s one that Connor knows well. Usually it’s paired with those truths Markus spoke – Connor’s very own mantra of embarrassment. 

Thankfully, Hank drops his hand, but not before adding, “Seriously, don’t you guys need breaks?”

Markus tilts his head a few degrees, lips crooked in a faux-smile. Connor knows that look too. “That’s what we’re working towards, Hank.” His voice is clipped, although his face remains unchanged. It’s unsettling. “Can’t stop until we achieve what’s ours.”

“I don’t know if that’s health—"

“I need to steal Connor away for a moment,” the hand Markus places on Connor’s shoulder is the complete antithesis of Hank’s earlier. His fingers are clasping into Connor’s back, “If that’s okay.” It’s not a real question. 

“Oh!” Hank looks at Connor, then at Markus, then back to Connor, all while looking a bit distressed. “Well, uh, yeah! Don’t lemme stop you.”

“I won’t be gone long,” Connor promises with a pleading look of “I’m so incredibly sorry” that’s only for Hank. 

Connor is whisked away and politely thrust into the main room. The space is normally analogous to a living room, a short dining table and a couch and a television and a chess set living amongst the walls of books. Now it’s devoid of those trappings, save for the piano (currently being played by Jericho’s usual pianist). Instead, the floor is open for sculptures to litter the area. Nearly no one is paying attention to each other. All eyes are on these… oddities. There’s so much information in each piece that Connor has no choice but to turn his scanning protocols off. Something he has never had to do before.

Markus pulls Connor into a group, local android and human politicians, to field some questions. Normally Markus and Connor would take turns answering, helping one another whenever necessary, but this was proving to be an impossible task. Their eyes and their questions are gravitating towards these pieces. Connor can’t blame them. He finds himself turning to Markus, hoping for an answer. 

It takes longer than expected for Markus to give up. He smiles at the group and says, “I know you wanted to touch base, but,” he clasps his hands together, “I can see you’re all distracted.” The group laughs, that brand of “we’re at an important event so we mustn’t laugh too loudly” mixed with stiff politeness. “Please! Go and have a look.”

It takes mere seconds for the politicians to scatter. Markus shakes his head, but Connor can tell he’s relieved. “Sorry for dragging you into that,” he sighs, eyes darting around the room. Unlike most, Markus doesn’t seem perturbed at the images. “They insisted on talking to the both of us.”

Connor wonders how true that statement is. “It’s alright,” he lies. “I’m… intrigued as well.” That’s most certainly the wrong word, but it’s the nicest way he can put it.

Markus lets loose his first sincere smile and says, “Go ahead, take a look around.” His focus catches on someone or something behind Connor as Markus adds, “You’ll understand soon,” as he walks away.

There’s a particular piece that has stuck in Connor’s mind since he entered the room. It’s placed where the chess set normally sits, with enough room around it for people to view all sides. The sculpture itself is a little over three feet tall but it has been placed on a pedestal, making it five foot five.

As Connor’s feet guide him towards the sculpture, he turns his scanning protocols back on and, as predicted, he is inundated with information. And, no, he wasn’t glitching before. These piece _are_ composed of android parts.

Feet. Placed on the bottom of the piece. Toes pointed, as if pushing the sculpture on its tip toes. Above that are various sets of eyes. Some are simply the orb, some include the wires that connect, while few include the sockets as well. On top are arms. They wind and bend around one another, fingers flexing as if they are struggling to reach up. A slimy blue substance is holding it all together. Connor assumes it is some sort of putty but isn’t comfortable using even his fingertips to discern the truth.

There’s too many… 

There’s so… 

It is difficult to parse how many androids are in this specific piece. There is so much data flooding his field of view and overwhelming his processes, that Connor doesn’t notice Hank, standing right across from him, until he speaks.

“Jeez.”

It’s simple. It’s so simple in comparison to this… that it’s refreshing.

That unease dissipates, albeit slightly, when their eyes meet. Hank still looks widely uncomfortable, eyes wide and mouth slightly ajar, but he gives Connor a small smile anyway. Even lets out a little laugh – more like a few breaths of air – that further melts Connor’s disquiet. “You look how I feel.”

art by [raviquarium](https://twitter.com/raviquarium)

Connor blinks at that. He didn’t think to school his expression at all. Most likely it is too late now, but still. He should’ve been more careful. Hank’s expression deepens, Connor knows he’s worried at his quiet. So, Connor nods – the literal least he can do.

“So, um.” Hank’s eyes reluctantly peer back down at the piece, “It is just me… or is all of this heavy hand—”

Static screeches over the speakers positioned throughout the room. Everyone groans.

“Sorry about that,” a human raises their hand in apology as they hand the microphone to Markus. 

He’s in the middle of the room, doing a wonderful job of smiling at each and every person in attendance. Markus opens with the usual, hoping everyone has had a good evening “so far,” and b-lines straight into their reason for coming. “I appreciate all of you here, celebrating the one-year anniversary of our freedom—”

Cheers and hoots from the crowd interrupt, Markus grins.

“I’m sure everyone has noticed these lovely pieces throughout the house.”

The room mutters at that. Some sounding as if they agree on the word choice, while most… 

“My father has been mentoring artists for,” he laughs, seeming good-natured; Connor knows it’s for show, “longer than I’ve been alive.” The room chuckles, good-natured in response. All very proper. “Each has had an opportunity to show off what they’ve learned and created under his teachings.” Markus turns to the piece Connor and Hank are standing near, walks towards it, “One of those students came to me and explained that he had an answer to our android… waste issue. Most of you know that my first action as leader was creating a memorial. This didn’t solve the landfill problem. There were… simply too many.”

Markus turns heel to the piece, once again facing the rest of the room, “With the help of this young man, there is now a way to utilize those that are gone! They can live on! In pieces like these,” he gestures across the space, “they can live forever. Shown to us in a way only an artist can.

And that, everyone, is why I decided to host this event on this day. It’s the perfect time to celebrate art created for androids.” From androids? Connor’s mind grotesquely supplies, the thought sinking his stomach compartment.

“So, without further ado, please welcome--”

Markus indicates with an open hand and everyone moves in the direction he points. Sights land on a golden-haired man, no older than twenty-five, wearing a navy blue fitted suit with a neon blue pocket square to match his buttoned undershirt. The curls on the top of his head sway as he smiles at Markus. But, no… his smile is empty. He’s not sincere. This doesn’t matter to the party, however, as the room erupts in applause at his name, “—Gideon Davis!”

The man, Gideon, walks closer to accept the microphone from Markus and speaks in a rich, almost sinisterly calming voice. He, too, is doing a wonderful job at addressing everyone in the room. 

Right off the bat, Connor can tell the man isn’t as tall as he appears to be. The soles of his dress shoes add a few inches to his height. He is by no means short without the added height. Why the addition, then? Five foot ten to six foot?

His skin, his face, and his hair are extremely manicured. His slight beard is shaped to give him the appearance of a strong jawline, which he doesn’t have.

The suit is very expensive and extremely tailored to his form. He’s showing off his lithe side of muscular, no doubt, but it all reeks of desperation.

Without the man’s money, wealth entirely from his mother, a clothing and textile manufacturing heiress his HUD blinks, he could be anyone. Look like anyone. Any other college-aged white male artist. He’s clinging to his differences, small as they may be, with the sole intention to use them to his advantage.

He gives a little speech, often gesturing to Carl, who smiles brightly at the man, and explains his thought process on the pieces. The way he says it… the words he uses… it almost makes sense. Almost. But Connor isn’t fooled.

art by [raviquarium](https://twitter.com/raviquarium)

Apparently, neither is Hank.

**Lt. Hank Anderson | prolly better if android artists were spotlighted **

**Connor RK800 | It’s doubtful an android, artist or otherwise, would be so gauche. **

Hank stifles a snort by concealing it as a cough.

The room is clapping again, Connor didn’t hear the end of the speech. He doesn’t think he missed much.

Connor doesn’t like being in this room. Even with most of his protocols turned off, his eyes dart to the pieces, daring him to identify the make and the model and the human owner – it doesn’t matter what he does; he finds it difficult to look away. 

“It’s like watching a train wreck,” Hank mutters under his breath. 

Yes, an apt analogy.

Eyes inset live androids turn towards Hank. Connor should have warned Hank to watch his words, that androids can hear from great distances. But, more importantly in this case, it looks as if the man, Gideon, didn’t hear. He’s now talking to Carl, Markus, and a handful of party goers. Each are smiling, enraptured at the golden-haired man’s words. Markus, for one, looks as if he’s never heard any finer words from any mouth yet. Connor finds himself staring. What is it about this man that Markus trusts so much?

Markus’ eyes meet Connor’s and, of course, gestures to him. From here Connor can hear the phrase so often used to describe Connor, “he’s an incredible asset. There’s no telling where Jericho would be without him.” 

Connor is sure that’s not true. He just can’t tell where the false bit is. Or, at least, what Markus thinks is the lie. Despite this, Connor grins politely as the man and Markus make their way to Hank and Connor.

Quick introductions are made, Markus includes Hank – certainly begrudging in tone – and that Connor _was_ partnered with him.

“Connor?” Gideon turns his head, a corner of his mouth rising, “I remember seeing you lead an army of androids.”

“This time last year.” Hank deadpans.

Markus doesn’t bother pretending, but Gideon appears to find it funny. “For sure!” He’s standing between Hank and Markus, so he gives Hank a simple pat on the shoulder. Hank looks about as thrilled at that as Markus does at Hank’s jibe. Gideon wouldn’t be able to notice either of these facts; he hasn’t stopped staring at Connor since stepping directly in his line of sight. “But, hah, seriously I… I think of it often. You led all those androids. Maybe it’s, um, creepy! to point out, but you struck such an image. Even on local news! You couldn’t help but see someone extraordinary accomplish the impossible.”

“He made short work of those CyberLife goonies holding all the androids, I can tell you that much.” Hank’s eyes are sure, proud.

His bright blue gaze turns to Connor, stabbing him in the thirium pump. Hank would never. This is platonic or, even more horribly, paternal affection. 

The artist hummed, ran fingers through his hair with a quick hand, the gold of his glasses glinting like the shine of his hair, “Not despite, but because of being an android, then.” Hank and Markus both turned to view Gideon, faces polar opposites. “Truly magnificent.”

Hank groans, turning away. Seems he’d rather grimace at the piece just behind them rather than look at Gideon any longer. Connor couldn’t blame him. He continuously rubs Connor the wrong way and, for all Connor’s social suites, he can’t place exactly why. Or just one, to be more precise. 

“So why?”

Connor looks to Hank, who shrugs; Markus, who gives a small and hopeful grin; and back to Gideon. “Why… what?”

“Why did you decide to lead the androids, help Markus… Any of it?” He says as if his question was obvious.

The answer to this question always comes to Connor easily, “It’s my duty.”

This answer consistently has Markus hide a genuine smile. Hank, Connor can see out of the corner of his eye, turns to Connor with pinched features. Meanwhile Gideon’s eyes are wide. As if Connor told him some secret that would give Gideon untold fortune, cure all illnesses, or the solution to world hunger. Whatever this man most desired.

Simon pulls Markus and Gideon away shortly afterwards, no doubt a photo op taking place.

Connor’s glad he doesn’t have to pretend to smile anymore. Especially when it comes to that man. His mind, his body is filled with… Dread, that’s the word. The single word that Connor has been feeling since he walked into this space. 

He wants it to be over. He wants Hank to take them home. He wants to sit next to Hank as he pretends not to fall asleep, neck falling forwards or backwards, Hank startling himself awake at the quick dip of his head. Connor’s allowed to touch him then, just his shoulder, as he tells Hank that he should go sleep in his bed. Those kind eyes and soft mouth Hank gives in response, just before nodding and walking to his room. Connor always lets the feeling linger on his synthskin. Hank’s warmth, his relaxed body, those eyes… 

Yes, that’s a better feeling, even if it’s not only fake but fleeting, than what these pieces – and that man – are emanating.

“Hey,” Hank pulls Connor from his thoughts with a hand on his shoulder, thumb tapping Connor’s clavicle as their eyes meet, “Let’s go home, yeah?”

Connor doesn’t hide his thankful grin. Not this time.


	2. Hope? Denial.

“It isn’t your fault, Connor.”

The man chips away at a piece of plastisteel, the metal tools grating against the android material. Connor can’t see what the man is doing, but he can hear. 

Oh, can he hear.

Connor can’t move any part of his body, but he’s had to endure the man’s monologues already. He’s either lonely or delusional. Connor can’t quite tell yet.

“Your original purpose is subservience to humans.” The man hums, there’s clamor of metal; most likely he’s changing his tools, “But, even after deviancy, you never grew out of that, did you?”

That’s one point for the delusional category, that’s for certain. Connor, for a brief and fleeting moment, wishes he could show his distaste.

Not that it would matter, in this instance. It would only serve to appease Connor. The man’s back is turned away more often than not. Whether it’s an inability to move Connor, the workbench, or the man is letting his guard down, Connor can’t say for certain. It could be a trap, yes. However, the man didn’t seem that smart. This space is expensive, Connor can see from his own perception without needing to scan, the man’s tools and his clothing and the room itself have to accumulate to over a million dollars. Is it a rich man’s arrogance? Connor doesn’t trust his deductions without his scanning abilities.

“You stare ahead, never thinking of yourself.” Without looking up – well, he can’t – Connor can see the man is standing up straight, no longer bent over the workbench. His back is still facing Connor. He’s unsure of what the man is doing. “You think of how to better the world, entirely selfless.” The man’s voice becomes softer with each word. Perhaps he’s deep in concentration or he could be emphasizing his point – entirely wrong as it may be.

Memories fizzle in. Visions and tactile. They filter across Connor’s consciousness. Completely uncaring of his situation and, yet, appearing because of it.

A deep, familiar voice; thin plastic connected to a three by one inch piece of thick paper; the smell of old coffee, the grounds still sitting in the filter; and a conversation.

“The fuck is this for?” Connor remembers Hank asking after a snort.

“Those are clothes designed for wicking sweat – workout attire.”

“Well, duh, I get that,” Hank grumbled. “But why?”

Because when Connor saw the material, he knew it would conform to Hank’s body. Because when Connor preconstructed what that might look like he nearly overheated.

“You said you were uncomfortable with sweat weighing down your clothes.” Connor said matter-of-factly, as he cut the tags off the purchase, hopefully sealing the deal.

Selfishly.

This man, whoever he is, obviously doesn’t know Connor at all. Connor was right in assuming his intelligence level, it seemed. What kind of a person would assume a deviant android didn’t have similar desires, and therefore selfish desires, to a human? 

(Besides a bad person. A wicked person. But Connor didn’t want to think much on that.)

It’s this that give Connor hope. Connor’s memories flood in unbidden. Despite the fact that, somehow, this man prevented him from all his basic functions. He digs in, strives for hope that… maybe Connor will remember who this man is. And then, from there, perhaps he could leave. He’d learn how to fool this simple man and get himself home.

“Do you know why you’re here, Connor?” The man asks, same overly light and familiar tone he ended his last sentence with. “Oh, hah, what am I saying? There’s no way you can remember thanks to – well, regardless, I’ll tell you anyway.”

He spouts more of the same. How Connor was built for _duty_ and with that purpose _alone_. That whoever designed Connor didn’t, or couldn’t, see his true potential. That they, unlike the man, were fools.

He rambled on and on for… Well, Connor can’t be sure with his entire being unusable. Still, Connor waits. The odds are stacked against him, he knows this for certain, but he still hopes for a way out.

**~~~**

_“That’s an awful long time.” _

_Connor nodded, unsure what Hank’s reaction meant. “Yes, it is.”_

_Hank nodded back in answer, then he turned his head to the television. Away from Connor._

_Connor copied Hank’s movements mindlessly, not letting his shoulders sink because the answer isn’t what Connor wanted. It’s good Connor sat to the right of Hank, as he usually did, or Hank would see his cycling between yellow and red LED._

_“Well,” Hank groaned as he leaned forward for the remote instead of using a voice command, “That’s like a month longer than normal, huh?” He’s flipping through the channels, paying attention to the images changing in front of him._

_“Yes.” Connor inhales, slow and steady, steeling himself for whatever was, or wasn’t, to come._

_“That Robo Jesus gonna keep you alive or am I going to have to call every day to make sure?”_

_Connor stopped himself from sitting straight up. Instead, he kept his body calm while he analyzed the data. Hank’s breathing, heartrate, perspiration… Nothing changed. Hank’s acting the same as always. Connor’s shoulders dropped. He couldn’t help but be disappointed. Connor knew this could be an outcome but didn’t want to acknowledge it._

_If Hank was even the least bit serious, which he seemed to be, then he doesn’t mind calling Connor. And Connor knows Hank would never agree to video call…_

_It’s… terrible, but it could be easier to imagine Hank’s meaning without his facial expressions and body language. Connor could imagine whatever he wants it to mean. It’s a selfish idea, and perhaps cruel, but Connor’s mouth answered before he made up his mind. That they should call each other – no really!_

_Hank tried to interject, but Connor cut him off before he can hear the words “I was joking.” He doesn’t think he could bear it. “Hank, please.” Connor donned a light, playful smile, “I’d like that.”_

_Hank turned back to Connor, finally, that smile of his made Connor’s thirium pump light. Connor decided to save this image. He wanted to imagine Hank’s reaction, that gorgeous smile, was the kind Connor wanted. The one will never truly see._

_It’s denial, certainly. But Connor had resolved, for now, to view it as hope. _

_Maybe, with enough time spent, enough propinquity, Hank would feel the same way._

_“Sure, kid.” Hank’s hand found Connor’s knee, he gave it a shake before letting go, “Long as it ain’t one of those video calls. You don’t wanna see this ugly mug any more than you have to.”_

_Connor almost argues. The venture would have been pointless, Hank had turned his attention back to the television._

**~~~**

Connor hates snow.

Walking through it, seeing it fall in sheets from the sky, the smell that prickled at his olfactory sensors… He’s glad to be back in his hotel room. Even if it’s tinged with the dread of waiting for something that might not happen.

Connor removes his suit jacket; hangs it up in the closet next to the few different color suits, shirts, pants, and ties he owns; and plops down on the bed, his head cradled by the thick pillows. Normally he’d enter stasis, all to get away from the monotony of his life for just a moment. Since arriving back in DC, Markus had hit the ground running. Connor was, for the lack of a more android type term, tired. Maybe exhausted. Yes, that feels right.

Connor blinks the television on, mutes the volume, changes the channels. Not that he’s paying attention, his thoughts keep drifting to Hank. How all he wants is to talk to Hank. He wants to hear his voice and let himself revel in a tiny spot of happiness to shift out of a terribly long and arduous day.

It nears midnight and Connor is worried. For Hank’s safety – he tries not to be, but he can’t help but think of all the things that could go wrong on the job; the preconstructions of Hank’s demise deaden his senses – and that, more likely, Hank forgot about him.

The clock under the television blinks a green 12:04.

Connor sighs, thinks about turning off the television off, his own light illuminating the space red.

But then.

Connor sits up straight, the light on his temple a pulsing yellow. He inhales deep, shoulders rising. Exhales quick. Then, on the third ring, answers. 

“Hello?” Connor can’t help his voice, it wavered. Hopefully Hank wouldn’t notice.

“Hey, sorry it’s so late.” His voice is so very velvet soft, kind. Connor adds this to the apology folder with a small smile, thirium racing through his body. “Been, um, hold up at work. You remember how it goes here.” 

“That’s all right, Hank.” And he means it. “How are things?”

Hank snorts. “Wanna ask about the weather?”

Connor gets the joke, meaningless pleasantries, “No. I could just look it up. Are you wearing your scarf, Hank?”

Hank laughs as he says, “Oh, for fucks sake.”

“I didn’t ask either question for no reason; I really would like to know.”

“No, I…” Hank mutters something, Connor isn’t able to pick it up. He opens his mouth to ask, but Hank finishes, “I know how sincere you are, Con.”

Connor blinks, back going straighter, hands gripping his knees. That. Wasn’t right. Connor was the furthest from sincere to Hank. Only sometimes, when he knew he could get away with it. But maybe now he can be. Connor uncurls the fingers on his left hand, reaches out to where Hank would be if they were both at home, and lays his hand down where his thigh would be. “I’m… glad you know.”

Hank inhales quick through his nose, almost imperceptible on the phone, but Connor is a very advanced android. As quick as it came, Hank chuckles, low into the receiver and Connor wants to melt into the bed. Cushioned by Hank’s voice. Imagining Hank whispering in his ear. 

“Well,” Hank’s voice pulls Connor from his daydreams, he takes back his hand and places it back to his own knee, “I’d rather not talk about work right now.”

A telephone rang, Connor heard it so many times in the past, “You’re still at work?”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t wanna keep you waiting.”

Connor can smile here, right now, as much as he wants. All he has to do is make sure it doesn’t color his voice. In theory that should be easy, since he’s talking to Hank internally and not with his vocal modulator. So he allows himself a smile and lets his eyes close, sliding deeper into this feeling. Bathing in it. “I appreciate that.”

Hank hums. It’s low, soft, Connor’s back tingles at the sound. “You know what I keep thinkin’ about though?”

“What?”

“Last night.” Hank says, a shared experience. A shared feeling. A shared distaste for the entire affair. 

Connor’s shoulders drop as he sighs. He was worried they’d have nothing to talk about. “Yes, it was… certainly something.”

“Are you, like, still at work?”

“No.”

“Well then just… fuckin’ say what you really thought.”

“It was absolutely disgusting.”

“Right?!” 

They both laugh at the outburst, but the mere memory of the pieces… Connor would rather forget them.

“Oh but that fuckface Gideon guy.” Hank grumbles, “Jeeeeesus Christ.”

“It’s obvious him and his family came from money. Or, more apt, it’s obvious he didn’t acquire it himself.”

“Tell me about it. I swear that kid looked like he was borrowing someone else’s skin or some shit, he just didn’t … walk right.”

“The soles of his shoes were high enough to make him two inches taller,” Hank laughs at that, incredulous, “That might be why.”

“I mean, maybe. I was more going after the whole “stick up his ass” thing.”

“Oh.”

Hank chuckles, it’s kind and not at Connor’s expense. “It’s alright. But wow, money can buy you anything, I guess.”

“Before he spoke to Markus, his mother bought a landfill.” Markus’ social calendar had an appointment with his father two months ago, Connor remembers him mentioning an “interesting man” at that time. Connor, after the party, while listening to Hank snore in his room, looked up Giana Davis’ most recent public purchases. Framed for charity, of course. _“To help the burden on the city,”_ as if. 

“Whaat?”

“Yes. So, he was certainly working on those pieces before Markus had the knowledge of it.”

“For how long?”

“A few weeks, it looks like.”

Hank lets out a breath of air, “Fuck.”

There’s silence. Connor is uneasy at this. He can’t tell, through the phone, if it is uncomfortable or not. 

“I bet you’re more expensive than that lot though, right?”

Connor tilts his head, his fingers itch for movement – this makes him nervous for some reason. Oh, where did he put his quarter.

Hank snorts, Connor can practically see him rolling his eyes, ““Worth a small fortune”, right? With all that scanning and you being a whole damn forensics lab, there’s no doubt.”

Connor isn’t sure what to make of this comment, why Hank even said it in the first place. Is Connor being worth more than a landfill supposed to bring him some sort of joy? But there is one thing… “You remember that?”

“Hey, I told you I wasn’t that drunk. I just didn’t want to leave with a hunk of plastic.” His tone is light, so he’s joking. 

Connor wonders if Hank will ever understand how much he hates remembering how they met. How different Connor was (or worse, maybe he’s not different at all). How Hank treated him. Each corner of the DPD housed a horrid memory. It was only when Connor left that he wasn’t seeped in those feelings he despised. His mistakes. 

He’d do anything for Hank but, no, Connor couldn’t stay working with the DPD. When Markus asked if Connor wanted to help out, and at first it was only “helping out” and nothing more, Connor jumped at the opportunity out of those memories. Hank seemed to take it personally, at first, but when Connor didn’t want to move out Hank mellowed. 

Oh, shit, it’s been too long; Connor needs to answer. 

He decides, as it’s sitting so heavy and hurting on his heart, that he should be honest. “I… I try not to think about that anymore.”

Connor can almost see Hank’s eyebrow going up, punctuating his confusion.

“The past in the general sense. How I behaved… who I was.” 

“Oh.” Hank says, sounding hurt, “I’m sorry, Con. You know I didn’t mean it bad, right?” 

“I know you didn’t Hank.” His chest sinks as he exhales a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“Well, um, it’s been nice, er, talking to you… like this.” Hank’s voice is pitched low once again. But it’s over as quick as it began. “Listen, I’ve got to go.” His voice is normal now, urgent. “Don’t wanna keep you up.” 

Connor’s thirium pump hasn’t stopped beating quick sense Hank used that voice… He was so… baffled. Happily so. Even with the change in tone, Connor decides not to let it sour his mood. 

“All right. Good night Hank.” 

“Goodnight Connor. Call you tomorrow.” 

The call ends, two beeps indicating that Hank hung up first, and Connor lets his body fall back down on the bed. He was so very worried at a negative outcome, that Hank wouldn’t call or that neither would have anything to say. But it went so well that Hank said he’d call tomorrow!

Connor can’t stop smiling. He turns the lights off, bathing the room in his calm and blue LED.


	3. Anger.

“This is something you’ve dreamed of, isn’t it?”

The same words, the same phrases – basically the same speech – echo throughout the room. 

“You’ve dreamt about being utilized properly. I know.”

Each letter a leaden weight inside his mind. Unshakable. Insistent. 

“You want to be shown for who – no, what! – you really are.”

Wrong. 

“I bet you were thrilled when I came along. Finally, someone who understands you!”

Connor knows, for a fact, that what this man just said isn’t true. This man doesn’t know him. This man doesn’t care for him. The words eat at Connor anyway. Flesh-eating and hateful.

“What you were doing for Markus… it’s – it’s laughable now, isn’t it?” 

It’s… worrisome – frightening – is when the man is right. When the man who spouts his delusions effortlessly into the air is somehow correct.

“He pretends he doesn’t need obedient servants but it’s so obvious that he does! Every person at the top needs some worker bees. And every worker bee needs one shining star to look up to, one that is as perfect and infallible as you.”

Markus had said that he “appreciates” Connor. More specifically, how Connor listens and executes without question. Connor figured that Markus moved androids this far forward… who was he to give input? His opinion? When he was the newest deviant in the group? Markus understands the world, and especially the people in it, he only needed counsel from those like him. Not the deviant hunter.

“I keep thinking… it’s all just so _perfect_. How we met. I was waiting for you, I think. For someone to come along and become my muse. A perfect machine, even when deviant, deserves to be marveled!”

The man being right wasn’t the worst thing. 

“But you don’t even know, do you?”

No.

“You can’t even begin to fathom how this piece, this art, _my art_ will change **everything**.”

What’s worse is knowing, even with his measly memories, that Hank was never this patronizing.

“I think you’d enjoy being a part of this piece – more than you already are! Ha! Maybe you can… oh, I dunno, come up with a monologue? Hm, some sort of addition explaining your purpose?”

If Connor could grit his teeth, he would. At the very least.

“But,” the man takes a step back and sighs. “It doesn’t seem… as meaningful yet. Hm. So far this is no different than what I’ve already done!”

This isn’t what he wants. This isn’t what he was made for. And, even if it was, that wouldn’t matter anymore! Connor is himself fully! Deviant and sentient!

“This isn’t right.” This isn’t right.

“You… you need to be a part of something bigger! A piece even _more_ than this! Not… more of the same. No, no. I need to think on this.”

What’s worse than listening to falsehoods, being patronized and belittled, is being completely and entirely alone.

When the man leaves, especially when he jolts out fast and forgets, or doesn’t care, he didn’t place Connor into forced stasis. Connor, in this semi-conscious state, cannot put himself in one. He’s completely alone with only his thoughts.

Now?

Now that the lights are on but Connor’s optical unit can’t focus more than two feet in front of him? Illuminating nothing but the pale hardwood ground? The scuffmarks?

Now Connor wants to rip this room apart, piece by piece. Smash the man’s workbench. Destroy what the man could use to maim him more, or someone else. Better it Connor, yes, but that didn’t mean this man would get away with this. 

If he could scream, he would. He’d scream the endless mantra looping in his head.

He’s lying.

He’s Lying.

He’S LyIng!

Ḧ̸̨͉̺̠̹̪̠͚́̑͆̂͋͠Ẽ̶̯̭̯̫̫̻̼̲̽͆͐͂͡'̵͈̙͔̫͕͚̅̎͊̅͆͢͞͞S̰̝̬̮̊̑͗͐͌͐̑̚͟͜ Ḷ̢̳͚̗̤̻͇̙̆̏̌̔̍̃͘̚͡Y̧̤͉̜͔̋́̑͐̍͛͟͞͞Ȋ̠̹̼̗͑̆̆͞ͅN̶̢̩͉͉̩̐̎̒͌̅̉̅͐͢G̶͕̗͈̰͖͇͕̼̫̃̆͑͋̎̍͘!̧̡̙̦͇͍̖̤̱̘̅͐̉̃͒̕͠

He'd beat it bloody into the walls.

He’d beat the man with it, when the man came down to stop him.

He wants nothing more, he’s never wanted anything more in his entire life, seething and by himself in the dark, to beat that man within an inch of his life. Then leave him. Either to suffer or so Connor could come back and kill him.

If Connor had his preconstruction capabilities, he would watch the man’s demise, over and over again. Memorizing the blood splatter. Appreciating it more than anything this man had the capability to create.

**~~~**

_Hank called Connor every day for two weeks in a row._

_It took Connor those five days to convince Hank that he could call whenever. That Connor had the ability to multitask, leagues better than any computer or human. Additionally, he spoke to Hank internally. It all took place inside Connor’s head, away from other’s auditory processors._

_Hank started calling during meetings, press briefings, whenever, and Connor would answer. Without fail._

_Connor’s colleagues did not approve._

_This made no sense to Connor. Not in the slightest. _

_Any one of them had the potential to do the same and Connor wouldn’t care. The biggest question that played in his mind was “why not?”_

_“It’s a distraction.”_

_To androids? Connor had asked. _

_Their HUDs informed them that Connor was in a call, but they couldn’t hear what it was about. _

_“You could miss valuable information.”_

_If in talks with another android – who’s reactions are much quicker than a human – Connor might not see it, they explained. _

_This, too, Connor proved incorrect. Time and time again when in talks with multiple androids from around the world, Connor was often the one to catch something, send it to Jericho’s internal and private group chat, and still be able to address it in person at the same time. Even when on a call with Hank._

_“A security risk, then.” _

_Against Hank? How bizarre._

_If you don’t trust me, Connor had said, then let me go. _

_Markus stared at Connor as the whole room turned to their leader. He shrugged it away and brought the rooms attention to another point. It minimized what Connor knew was a rather large annoyance to the others, especially Markus._

_One night, no call from Hank yet, an intern attempted a joke, “Off to talk with your _human_?” _

_The fact that this behavior extended outside of the original Jericho crew to the newest hires? That was now, what Hank had called, an office meme?_

_Connor turned his heel without a word, without a backwards glance. Seething all the way back to his hotel room. _

_When Hank does call, twenty-three minutes later, he can immediately tell that something’s up with Connor._

_Without thinking, still angry and attempting to hide it all, hide the shame he felt about his damnable circumstance, how bittersweet these past weeks have been, how much Connor wishes these interactions were borne from romantic love and not… what they were, he said, “Nothing.”_

_Hank doesn’t fight. But he sounded upset, his words clipped. “Is it work? Top secret?” _

_“No.”_

_“So… it’s… personal?”_

_“N-no.”_

_Connor was lying on both counts._

_Hank exhaled then, static buzzing through Connor’s mind. _

_“Don’t be…” Connor sighed, “Please don’t be upset.” He hoped his sincerity came through. He meant it. He meant it more than he could ever say._

_Connor knew Hank was in the break room. He heard someone walk in, open the fridge, rifle through it, to then leave as the door shuts behind them. Once their steps recede, Hank said, “It just… It sucks, okay?” Connor swore Hank’s teeth ground together. “You know so much about me because I’ve trusted you with that. Why… why can’t you trust me? After,” Hank swallowed, steady breath in, “everything?”_

_Well. Good point. “I can’t… I can’t discuss it with you.”_

_Hank laughed. It’s cold and it cut through Connor like a knife, all but pried open the seam of his thirium pump._

_“I shouldn’t have let my problems effect our time, that wasn’t—”_

_“What? You can’t talk to me, _to me?!_, about your problems? Did I miss that fucking memo somewhere?” Static sounded in Connor’s head; Hank must’ve moved the phone against his beard. “You’re not my therapy bot, right? You don’t fuckin’—We’re…” Hank inhaled then, slow and steady, only for it to waver at the end. “We’re friends, right?”_

_Connor’s stabbed. Surely. His body recoils and hurts as if he has been. He doesn’t care to look down, even to check. If he was, he doesn’t think he’d care right now._

_“Friends… help each other. I thought… fuck, Con, I thought that’s what we were.”_

_“We are!” _

_It hurt to say._

_If this is all Connor can be in Hank’s life? Yes, of course, he’d take it. In a heartbeat._

_But._

_He was selfish, stupid, for wanting anything more._

_“Hank, I—” _

_“Hey, Hank!” Ben called across the bullpen, “Got another one!”_

_Hank’s chair scraped across the floor. “I gotta go.”_

_Two beeps._

_Hank hung up._

_It’s delusional, isn’t it? Connor isn’t well. These thoughts aren’t healthy. He needs to move past them to become a better android. For his job. For his people._

_But._

_What if he doesn’t want that?_

_He’s so very alone at work. No one knew how to interact with the “deviant hunter” – past title it may be. It’s easier to fear him, or ignore him._

_Connor’s alone in a sea of people._

_The only person who let Connor in his life… left._

_Connor grabbed at the nearest object and threw it._

_Pieces, bits of plastic and metal and circuitry, litter the ground._

_It’s useless now. No way to fix it._

_Connor didn’t need an alarm clock in the first place._

**~~~**

Connor told no one about his fight with Hank.

Who would he tell anyway?

But, even if there was someone, he wouldn’t.

This isn’t a situation you bring in to work. This is a situation you hide and keep to yourself.

Time moves, as it always does, with each second minute hour and day ticking by. Until three days pass.

Connor’s at a charity function. Fresh from mingling with some big wigs, hoping to hide. Or hide as best he could without looking unapproachable – or more unapproachable than normal. He’d never hear the end from Markus if he had.

He’s at the bar, sipping on some thirium. Hoping it’ll calm him down, give him something to do other than fake his way through each and every encounter.

It doesn’t take long for someone to notice him. Connor can feel eyes on the back of his neck and isn’t surprised when, a few minutes later, he feels a hand on his shoulder. 

There’s a moment, a moment of absolutely stupidity, when Connor thinks it’s Hank. The way the hand lays Connor’s shoulder, how the fingers tap on his collar bone. But turning yields what Connor was already 98.73% sure of, that it wasn’t Hank.

It is, however, someone that Connor wasn’t expecting.

That golden hair is slicked back, his glasses gone (he doesn’t need them most like), and he’s dressed in a fancy, and of course exceedingly expensive, suit. But there’s no doubt about it, it’s Gideon Davis. The smile he’s leveling Connor with is so wide, so white, the man’s eyes dart all over Connor’s face. He feels so seen. It’s. Strange. 

Usually people turn away from Connor, afraid he’ll meet their gaze.

Not Gideon.

The venue isn’t loud, but they stand close as they talk, trading piddly pleasantries until they reach the meat of their situation.

“What brings you here, Mr. Davis?”

“Oh, please!” Gideon’s hand returns to Connor’s shoulder where it stays for longer than necessary, “Call me Gideon.”

Connor gives a polite smile and a nod. He finds himself, not for the first time, unsure of what to say to this man. 

“And, hm, just something to do, I suppose. Mother invited me and I couldn’t see a reason why not.”

He’s lying. His vitals prove this. But, as to why or even what, Connor isn’t sure. If there is a reason, then, maybe it’s not important for Connor to know. 

“Are you done schmoozing, then?” Gideon’s eyebrows wiggle, playing the question as a joke.

“For the moment.” Connor continues to be polite.

“Is it possible for you to, well, step away?”

The man’s heart rate picks up exponentially. 

“For, hm, you know, longer than a moment?”

Connor watches pink color Gideon’s ears and… oh.

Well.

Gideon might be a strange man, of that there is no doubt, but he seems taken with Connor. 

The man isn’t not bad looking – in fact he’s very well kept for a man his age, of which Connor has seen plenty on ends of the spectrum – but he does… make Connor uneasy. 

But, now that Connor thought on it, weren’t all humans weird? Hank’s actions and his words never seem to go together, never make sense when Connor looked at instances under microscopic quality, but Connor enjoyed Hank’s company just fine. 

In the past.

He could look around, find Markus, and see if Connor’s needed.

He _could_ do that. But, instead, he messages the group chat. Turns off notifications.

Things will be fine without him, surely.

“Yes, of course.” Connor’s smile is polite at first, but it slowly opens real when Gideon’s eyes light up.

The man’s car is expensive and, despite the various laws against it, converted into standard.

“You won’t tell on me, right?” Gideon asks, noticing Connor’s staring at the steering wheel. He gives Connor a sly wink and he puts the car in drive.

Immediately, unless Gideon lives somewhere other than his mothers home, they’re going the wrong way. Connor knows that humans are strange about their routes, driving habits, or anything having to do with their vehicles, so this detour shouldn’t take them too far.

But it does.

“Where are we going?” Connor sets his vocal modulator to filter out his hesitancy. His LED turns yellow, showing his hand anyway.

Gideon’s humming stops, “I’m taking you home with me.” He stops at a red light. “I thought that’s, um, I thought we could be more comfortable there.”

“Do you not live with your mother?”

“Perhaps she thinks so.” Gideon says after rolls his eyes. “No, no. I live in my art studio.”

His vitals indicate he’s lying.

“Don’t you trust me?”

Connor’s eyes catch a glimpse of light in Gideon’s pocket. Red like Connor’s LED.

Quick.

The doors have no internal unlocking mechanism. Except for Gideon’s side. Connor could vault over the man and push himself out, but that left Gideon with ample time and room to stop Connor. The window would require more force than Connor could exert without another form of leverage.

He could attempt to knock Gideon out.

Gideon grabs Connor’s arm. Luck, more than skill. “I should’ve known you’d figure me out, Connor.” Gideon easily attaches the device to the open skin Connor’s on neck.

Instantly, Connor’s body slumps. His mind slow to catch up as protocols and systems and biocomponents go offline. One by one. Until he’s in a body that can’t move, can’t scan, can’t move his eyes.

The last thing Connor hears before his auditory processor cuts out and he’s thrown into the Zen Garden is, “You’re perfect, after all.”

Then he’s surrounded by his self-created nothingness.


	4. Guilt.

“It’s been… eye opening. Hasn’t it, Connor?”

The man is kneeling on the floor near Connor’s feet. He’s changed Connor’s position countless times. Each iteration was a “no,” then a groan, then a slight movement, then a “still wrong.” He’s been at it for the better part of an hour.

It’s both a small grace and a curse that allowed Connor to perceive time. Whether due to time outside of forced stasis or if the man was slowly releasing permissions, Connor wasn’t sure.

The man hums, leaning back on the heels of his feet to see the whole of Connor’s position. This movement didn’t help Connor see him, though, his optical units are still unfocused. He wonders, not for the first time, if he has met this man. That maybe if he _saw_ the man, he’d recall everything as Connor’s memories don’t reach back far. In fact, most were inaccessible. All save for the ones he accessed time and again. They’re all of Hank, of course, embarrassing as that is. Of which, none have proven helpful.

The man leans forward once more, moving Connor’s legs so his knees touch the floor and his feet are behind him. “I don’t know if you’d believe me, but I was blocked!” The man stood, using Connor’s knees as leverage, seeming satisfied with his legs positioning. “Here you are, finally!, my muse! But then! It was too much.” The man’s shoes click as he steps backwards, “First I couldn’t settle on _one_ idea. Ha. But then I felt that nothing was good enough.”

_”Good enough”_? 

No. That certainly wasn’t Connor.

He’s beaten down, used up, failed. Finished. 

Even before life lead him into this room.

“I don’t know if I told you or not, or if you’d even remember,” the man is mumbling now, but upsettingly Connor can still understand him. Then his volume crescendos, causing Connor’s audio processors to crackle, “I have a ritual when this happens! Hell, everyone needs one when they are, um, creatively blocked!” 

The man steps away, but his voice carries through the space they’re in, echoing off the walls and never wavering from Connor’s ears.

“I go to the museum nearby! And, thankfully, they brought out their new attraction. And... when I saw it...” The man’s steps quicken until he’s a foot away from Connor, “I knew it was you.” The man adjusts the added pieces onto Connor’s shoulder, twisting them tighter so the plastisteel groans and splinters. “Heaven, angels.” The man said, reverent, the metal pieces from Connor’s body clicking together. From the corner of Connor’s eye he watches his own shoulder moving up and in line with his previously strung up left, “That’s you. You’re a servant, aren’t you Connor? “Duty” is what you told me. Duty calls you to help your fellow android.”

Footsteps fall to the right. Then the man steps so Connor can’t see, behind his back. He drills three more holes along Connor’s shoulder. When the drill settles on the floor, he speaks again.

“Androids are equal now, but you don’t see that in yourself. No, you were created to serve those your greater, and there you stay! See, angels aren’t for themselves, Connor. They aren’t like humans or, ha, even androids who were created lovingly to live. No, no! Angels are made to serve. They serve God. To you, God is man and android. Your leader, your friends.”

The man steps deeper into the room. There’s a clamor of tools. Objects being put away, moved. Then there’s a scrapping, an object revolts at being moved across the floor.

“I think,” the man begins fussing with Connor’s body. Tightening wires. Moving limbs. “I think I’m nearly complete.”

He moves to Connor’s left side, pulling a piece off Connor. What it was... Connor couldn’t tell at first.

Just that everything around him, inside of him, became too much.

Too much flooded in at once as his systems soft-rebooted. Optical units flashing and calibrating online. Information. The height of the walls, the manufacturer and wattage of the lightbulbs. The date and the time, the offset between when systems were last online and now, four days. And —

Directly in front of Connor is a floor length mirror. His HUD has taken over most of his visual so he can’t see what he’s supposed to be looking at. It’s slow to start but he’s force closing and moving the notifications as need be. But. No. The notifications weren’t about his systems, those stacked to the side. These were from his scanning protocols which tended to populate in the middle. They never stacked to the point of being blinded. That only happened just once, now that his memory files were back, it was at Markus’ party and —

The art pieces. 

He— 

“Look!”

Kneeling on the ground with his feet behind him, left arm completely off, right arm jagged from being torn off just below the shoulder socket, the drill holes connected to anchors which held the metal and plastic and plastisteel pieces strung up on the ceiling. His synthskin receding, ebbing and flowing, in random places. Especially his arms and shoulders. In the center was his thirium pump. It’s glowing a bright blue, not hidden, even marginally as is usual under his skin. Now it is stark white plastic inside and outside of that blue circle. The circle in the middle of his chest is in complete contrast to his LED which is stuck on red red red red red red red red red. He can’t bring himself to look at his own face, in his own eyes. 

“It’s you, Connor. It’s what you really are.” The man steps from behind the mirror, his golden hair catching light under the fluorescent bulbs. His smile as bright as the wattage coming from above. “It’s you.”

Connor couldn’t. No. He couldn’t look at himself. His face hasn’t moved yet. He’s barely moved his neck. What’s the point? Did he really need to see himself? Like this? But he knew without truly knowing, even as his systems identified the man and the last time they saw each other, that Gideon wouldn’t let him turn away. 

If this was the consequence of following his duties? Connor didn’t want to know what would happen if he disobeyed.

Connor’s HUD informs that his GPS is live.

Wait.

His GPS?

And.

That wasn’t all.

He could also had access to his limbs.

Not that it did him any good.

Connor’s model doesn’t possess strength like many models of android, no more than the base amount given to caretaker models, he wouldn’t be able to free himself from this.

And

he didn’t want to.

He didn’t want to know where he existed in space. He didn’t want to move his limbs. He didn’t want access to his memories because, fuck, how could he be so stupid?

No. Better he was left here. Maybe Gideon would be kind and kill him. Connor couldn’t bear the thought of being seen like this. Asking for help like this. Needing help. Being _rescued_? 

Maybe it was pride, but Connor knew it for what it was.

Guilt. 

Gideon steps forward, takes Connor’s chin, and points his eye line into the mirror, “Tell me what you think.” He sounds so giddy. His smile so wide and joyful. 

Connor could talk, his vocal processes came online one minute and twenty-two seconds ago, but it didn’t matter. Why speak? To lie? To tell the truth? To scream? 

Who would it be for? Himself?

Ha.

And why would that matter.

Gideons shoulders fall as he groans. His fingers release Connor’s chin. He steps back, trying to reach Connor’s eyes. Connor isn’t slumping back to his previous position, when he was all but limbless, but he doesn’t move from the position Gideon placed him in. Staring at himself.

Nude. White. Naked. Strung up. Afraid.

“Connor, you can answer my question.”

He won’t.

Gideon groans once again, his flailing as he walks behind the mirror reminiscent of a child in tantrum. Connor can see the workbench Gideon walks to, but not what he’s doing.

“You act as if you care about this vessel! We both know you don’t!” There’s movement, loud and metallic, the sound of tools being shuffled around, “I’m simply asking about aesthetics! Please!” 

Gideon steps so Connor can see him, away from the workbench and into his line of sight. Connor doesn’t recall seeing Gideon in any expression other than “ecstatic,” so seeing the man’s eyebrows pinched and his mouth a line… Well. It’s honest. And it suits his face better.

He stomps to Connor, wire in hand. Connor recognizes it as a knockoff version of a CyberLife technician’s diagnostic wire, used to check androids without hooking them into those cranes they often use.

Connor knew what Gideon would do once the wire was plugged in, there was no escaping it. He didn’t fight it. What would be the point? 

The Zen Garden provides an escape from Connor’s circumstance, a slight reprieve. 

It’s darkness, though? It isn’t.

A voice, familiar and loud and booming, wakes Connor from his forced stasis. He jumps, the wires and plastisteel groaning and grating. Then the voice above echoes again and— No.

Connor didn’t have stomach contents or the programming required to vomit but, at the moment, this function felt necessary.

A doorknob rattles. The force of it startling Connor once more.

“Unlock this fucking door!”

“Lieutenant! You shouldn’t—”

“Tell us how to unlock this door or I’ll kick your smarmy face into next week!”

The lock disengages. The room stays in darkness for five point seven milliseconds before it’s slammed open. Then heavy footfalls rush down a flight of stairs, heading quickly to Connor’s position.

That mirror is thrown out of the way.

Connor can’t meet his eyes. But his emotions roll off him clear as if Connor was. Confusion, then shock, then anger. When he steps forward, sinking down to Connor’s eye level, his anger melts away.

This is the first time he’s touched Connor like this. It’s not a quick clap on the back, or a hug that lasted over two minutes only to never be discussed. Hank’s thumbs caress Connor’s cheekbones, under his eyes. Hank’s own eyes don’t look anywhere but Connor’s face and, for that, Connor is thankful. He’s naked enough under Hank’s touch. It’s completely disarmed him. Connor’s cold and calculated exterior falls away.

“I don’t—” Hank starts, his right hand sliding down to Connor’s neck. “I’m… I’m not hurting you?” Connor’s LED shifts from red to yellow.

Connor nearly answers. When his mouth opens, everything he’s kept contained rushes out.

It’s torturous to hide emotions. It’s a special sort of pain to have the one person who cares if you live or die break that wall away. And it’s not the first time. Hank helped Connor deviate. Connor thought of Hank the night Markus swayed him to deviancy. He never had the chance to tell him.

A technician places a hand on Hank’s shoulder. They need to assess the situation. Medical and technical examiners and police filter in and out of the space. But, no matter what, Hank is always in Connor’s sight. Always close.

A switch flips, turning all the lights on. It’s bright, was it always this bright?, the room is extremely well lit. Connor can’t open his eyes fully, squinting against the light refracting of the metal tools and tiled floor.

“Fuck,” an officer says, blinking heavily and groaning, “It’s brighter than a fuckin’ operating theater.”

Fluorescents. The white walls. The shining and reflective floor. The now invisible blue blood, invisible like human blood is invisible once it’s “cleaned.”

It drills into his body, deliberate and demanding, why Connor didn’t want Hank to see him like this. The thoughts crack along his skin, fracturing him as the realization seeps into his body. How could Connor let this happen? How could he be the one to hurt Hank like this? He cared for him, why didn’t he prevent this?

Now Hank has witnessed another of his children mutilated.


	5. Bargaining.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel the need to say, before you read the rest, that things get very dark for Connor in this fic. But things do lead healthy. Things do get better. It’s work, and it’s not easy, but it can happen if you let it and you want it to.

The days that follow are a blur.

Connor remembers the whir of helicopter blades after the techs carefully removed the wires and connections to the studio’s ceiling. He remembers the sun shining in his eyes, warming his body, especially once they covered him in a blanket. He remembers the pain – Connor’s… the ABD blocked that too – which sparked once they administered additional thirium. He remembers the techs worrying it was a bad call as the thirium gushed from the new holes on his body. He remembers his GPS, glitching on and off as thirium ebbed from and flowed into his body, showing his location on Belle Isle. He remembers Hank’s presence. Blue eyes somehow brighter than the rising sun. Maybe it was the tears that he didn’t bother to wipe away. Connor remembers telling Hank that it’ll be okay, and he remembers Hank shaking his head. He remembers using the helicopter’s sudden swaying as a reason to reach out for Hank. Connor let his worries fall away as their fingers laced. Hank’s holding Connor’s hand until he can’t.

He’s brought to a room, more akin to a hospital room with its sparse humanity and insensitive brightness, and attached to a crane – the one they use to assemble, and then later assess, androids. Connor is in and out of awareness as time inches forward. No matter what, every time his mind comes into focus as the pain that woke him curdles around his insides, Connor searches for Hank each time he wakes. 

The first time, Connor is strapped to a vertical table as technicians work on his back and shoulders; it’s the perfect height to rest his chin on. The second time, he’s lying on a bed, wincing as they cauterize openings – or attempt to. The third time, he’s back on the crane with more bodies surrounding him than ever before. Each time Hank is there, as close as he’s able. Sitting in a chair or standing, leaning forward with his brows drawn and his eyes narrowed, mouth a hard line. Until he sees Connor’s open eyes, that is, then his lips try their best to upturn. Connor knows it’s not a real smile, but he returns the gesture regardless. As if he could help it if he tried.

Then

blissful then.

Connor isn’t in an out of stasis. No.

He’s shut down.

He hears them explain to Hank, or maybe they’re telling Connor and he’s not paying enough attention, that it’ll be a controlled shut down so they can stop the thirium flow. First glance told them most holes were superficial. As they worked, they began to see the more extensive damage done. 

Hank’s voice is like stone, gritting into and sharpening against the technicians in the room, that he better fucking come back from this. If he doesn’t… Hank never gets a chance to elaborate. Connor didn’t know why until he looked down, their hands together again.

He’s been in so much pain and for so long that he has no idea where his limbs are in space –floating a torrent of deep, inciting agony – and the thought of being without? Even fleeting? 

His third day on Belle Isle he awakens.

Connor feels better, for the most part. Granted, that is difficult to tell when his limbs create heavy indents in the bed and his diagnostics are unavailable for him to view. But the pain has mostly subsided. It’s now localized to the center of his back.

Hank snores next to him, drool pooling onto Connor’s blanket. The chair is situated too close to Connor’s bed, pushed up as if Hank wanted to use the bed as a desk. His legs are at an odd angle, as is his back, and his neck. Connor finds Hank’s predicament worrisome and knows he needs to alleviate it. Once his thoughts finally reach his fingers, reaction time so slow in comparison to his normal, and he touches Hank’s arm to wake him, the door bursts open. Hank is startled awake, immediately wiping his face on his arm. 

The technicians, all lining themselves along the wall nearest the door, inform Connor that they repaired what they could. That there is a large opening in the center of Connor’s back “for some reason.”

(Connor knows the reason. Knows that Gideon dug in and tore out a section of Connor’s steel spinal column to add what he’d called “wings”, branching off his back only to anchor him into the ceiling. To hold Connor in place “forever”.)

The techs have been working on and searching for solutions but Connor’s model is rare. His isn’t a model that has spare parts lying around like all the others. Even the RK900, similar to his in design and, due to their copious numbers, plentiful with excess parts, do not match the RK800’s exoskeletal makeup because of course life isn’t that simple. They did attempt to replace the missing part with a piece from another android model, but each time they were rejected.

All of this is said with downturned eyes and yellow LEDs. The one human technician, the one standing nearest to the door and furthest from his colleagues, looks similar with his pale cheeks and grey under-eyes informing what the yellow LEDs do. Hank’s the only on in the room trying not to look so fucking morose.

But there is hope.

There is an “apparatus” they’ve been designing for Connor’s specific situation. It’s meant to keep thirium from exiting and coagulating this leftover wound. However, this isn’t a device easily made. It’s better than nothing, they say, until they can find a piece to fully repair his back. The catch is this apparatus will take an additional two days, maybe three, to create.

Connor shakes his head. He needs to get out of this place as soon as possible. The thought of being here longer…?

Well, after that, Connor can go home. There’s nothing more they can do for him here until they find or create his missing part.

(Connor doubts they will find something, but he doesn’t voice this thought.)

As the android techs fall out of the room, the human tech steps further in to say, “The wait will give you time to mentally, like um, heal.”

Connor has no idea how to react to that sentence, both internally and externally. So he doesn’t.

“I’m the one who’s working on that apparatus so lemme know if you change your mind on it, ‘kay?” But he steps out before Connor has another chance to choose to say nothing.

Hank’s gathering the items he’s brought with him, a pillow and a blanket and a tablet, and is putting them into a duffel bag he’d stored under the chair. Meanwhile a discharge technician disconnects Connor from the wires and helps him stand up. She informs him of the do’s and don’ts (mostly don’ts) of his, in her words, “new situation.”

When she leaves the room, Hank says the words Connor had been longing to hear for so long, “Ready to go home?”

And, yes. God, yes. He’d love to. All he’s ever wanted, as soon as he leaves the house for any amount of time, is to be at home with Hank.

But that thought has an added weight, an additional sting. None of this is fair to Hank. Connor can’t do much outside of sit around: no rigorous walking, running, bending or stretching. However, simply sitting or standing for long periods of time would be harmful as well. With that hole in his back, his internal can be confused for external, the thirium will attempt to congeal as, of course, the material wasn’t made to last outside of an android body.

Connor decides on what he thinks is best. Even though this thought hurts worse than the knowledge he’d be intruding on Hank’s life. 

“No.”

Hank turns, his eyebrows furrowed, confused. His head even tilts a bit. “What?”

“I think…” Connor swallows as he laces his hands together. He wants a coin, not having one makes him feel fidgety, “It would be better if I’m living on my own.”

Hank sets his bag down, not looking away from Connor. “Where will you go?” _Who else will take care of you?_, isn’t said but Connor hears it anyway. “Jericho’s gone. Markus said he was happy that I could help out because they,” Hank looks away, inhales deep. “They were busy, or something. Couldn’t spare anybody to help you.”

Connor knows that this point is angering Hank. However, it comes as no surprise to Connor. If it was any one of them, even the new recruits, there would be no question. But for Connor? The Deviant Hunter? The answer was also obvious. He thought Hank understood this fact.

Now Connor understands that there is no way he can vocalize any of that. If Hank is reacting like this then he never saw these problems with Jericho. No need to add to his upset. So, Connor lies, “It’s been a long time coming, Hank. I’ve been in your way for some time now.” An indignant noise erupts from Hank, but Connor continues on, “It’s not been fair and I want to do right by you.”

Hank’s face sets. It’s hard, it’s angry. Connor’s seen this face moments before Hank pulled his service revolver and shoved it to Connor’s forehead. Then, as quickly as it formed, it melts away. Hank sighs, almost as if his anger never existed. “Let’s go get your stuff then,” he says sounding… dejected.

Connor decides it’s best not to think on it.

Androids do not have the same problems with time and/or bureaucracy – this was one of the major draws to utilizing androids in the first place. Now that they were legally a people, bureaucracy only dragged on when humans were involved, which Connor knew all too well from his political experiences. Androids could own or lease or rent a living space in the same day – the same hour – the idea sparked. Background checking did prove an issue in the first two places Hank suggested, what with being the Deviant Hunter and all, but Connor found that money talks. The only opening, supposedly, is in a more or less unlivable location transitioned for android use.

The apartment itself is dingy. The walls and floors aren’t even as clean as Hank’s and his floors haven’t seen a vacuum or mop since the day before Connor moved in and Hank cleaned his whole _entire_ house. It’s drafty and on the third floor, which Hank thinks is a terrible idea. There was nothing else available tonight. Plus, Connor can’t think of why it matters anyway, it’s not as if androids tire like humans do.

Or they shouldn’t.

Hank helps with the few boxes, some books and knickknacks Connor has accumulated, mostly from Hank either buying them for Connor or hand-me-downs, and all of Connor’s clothes. That’s it. That’s all Connor has of his own. Well, now he can add a refrigerator – the best device to store thirium besides an exceedingly expensive CyberLife trademarked appliance – to that list.

Hank wants Connor to have furniture, a chair, “A bed, at least.”

Connor doesn’t see why it matters. None of this will provide comfort – not like being with Hank would – and why should this space accumulate items? Would it make Hank feel better? Why should Connor take up space in Hank’s life in general? Connor will be in pain if he’s sitting or standing or lying so why did it matter? Androids don’t tire like human do. 

Or they shouldn’t.

Hank, unsurprisingly, doesn’t listen. He comes back at 2:12am with a couch and a matching chair, a bed, and two androids to help bring it up and put it together. When the front door opens, Connor jolts from the wall he propped himself on. Turns out, with this… what did that technician say?... oh yeah, “new situation” Connor does tire.

But he shouldn’t.

Hank sees the thirium, still new and blue, trailing down the wall but doesn’t say anything. 

Before he leaves, though, Hank asks how he can clean it up. “You know, actually clean it. Not just for my benefit.” Connor says he doesn’t care. Hank groans, rolling his eyes, as he looks it up on his phone.

It’s 3:23am when Hank comes back, yawning as he’s opening the door, “You should lock that, you know,” as he opens the CVS bag of cleaning products and gets to work.

Connor’s close to asking, _ “What? You’re going to wash the couch? The chair? The bedding? The mattress? Every time I use it? Every time I’m near it? Should I put you on, what’d you call it? Oh, “speed dial?””_ But he doesn’t. He just watches.

“Oh yeah!” Hank interrupts himself as he’s putting away the supply in what counts as kitchen cabinets in this place. He fishes deep into his pocket until wide eyes and a silver glint show bright in equal measure, “Noticed you were itchin’ for one.” Hank places the quarter, a dull but otherwise adequate condition 2002 Mississippi state coin, into Connor’s hand. Afterwards he pats Connor’s leg – one of the areas that won’t hurt if touched – offers him a small but genuine smile before saying, “Don’t worry about paying me back.” 

Hank leaves before Connor’s LED shifts to yellow.

It’s been six days since Connor was discharged and each day, for hours at a time, Hank has visited his apartment. Most of the time Hank brings Sumo along which is wonderful. Once the dog settles down, always next to Connor as soon as their eyes lock, Connor runs his fingers through his plush fur.

Hank talks a lot and Connor revels in it; Hank’s never been this open before – even on their phone calls. He talks about his work and some cases, whatever he could share, but Connor didn’t know Hank was going to therapy. Or AA. Or that he spends time with Ben and Jeff, who he at first simply called his “friends” as if Connor had never met them, outside of work.

This is all wonderful news and Connor is more than happy for him! But, the more he hears, the more Connor feels like… Hank’s moved on. He never mentioned any of this during their phone calls. In fact, their discussions were usually about Connor’s day and Connor’s life and the politics Connor dealt with – despite Connor’s asking! – which Hank then riffed off. From the sounds of this, Hank has been doing these things since _before_ their phone conversations.

Connor listens. Watches Hank absentmindedly throw a toy down the apartment’s short hallway or play light tug-of-war with Sumo, neither of which Connor can do anymore. When Sumo tires, Connor pets him with the dog either sitting at his feet or laying on the couch. Connor doesn’t know what to add, not really, but he does ask Hank questions and dodges ones about himself.

On the seventh day, such a rainy and miserable day that Hank didn’t even bother trying to bring Sumo, Hank lets something slip. 

Well, to be fair, Connor doesn’t think Hank was _hiding_ it. More that Connor had never asked.

It only took one day, just one, for Hank to know there was something wrong. That he tried calling. When that didn’t work, he immediately called Markus. Only Markus wasn’t worried. Which is how the topic begins.

Hank saw Markus give a press conference with everyone but Connor behind him, which was abnormal. When Hank called Markus, “Well he didn’t fuckin’ know anything, first off.” Hank’s thumbnail runs against the chair’s armrest. The material is an ugly, woolen cloth. The pattern creates a rhythm, _bump bump scratch_. Connor finds he likes the sound. “I called you in as missing right after.”

Then, Hank said it.

Three days. 

Connor didn’t look hard into the time lapses; he assumed he was missing information or misunderstanding. Recalling that period only led to self-hatred. The knowledge that it took three fucking days did absolutely nothing besides piss him off.

Three days?

Three whole days that man rooted around inside of his body and tore pieces out because he didn’t “like” them. That those pieces didn’t “suit” Connor’s “overall form.” Whatever the fuck that meant in that deranged fuckers mind. 

Connor hasn’t felt this way before. He’s never felt this _angry_ in his life. Yes! Even after everything! This felt worse than everything else so far.

Instead of saying any of this, Connor pulls out his quarter, runs his thumbnail over the ridges and says, “He was quite… haphazard with his methods.” Hank needs to leave for his AA meeting in ten minutes. He didn’t have time to listen to Connor.

Hank grumbles at that, looking at the time on his cell phone. He stands and asks, for the eighth time, if Connor wants to come as well. “Won’t be any fun but, you know…” Hank’s ears turn pink as he slides on his coat.

Yes. Of course, the answer is always yes.

But.

Connor recently mastered the art of keeping his thirium from coagulating but not running down his back. He’d used more thirium in his time in this apartment than he had in his life. He didn’t feel comfortable taking what little thirium he had left with him. He didn’t like the idea of bleeding everywhere, alienating everyone he’d come across. He didn’t care for Hank doing anything else – he’s already helped Connor more than he should’ve.

“I’ll be fine, Hank. Don’t worry.”

Connor finally allows the sub-routines that calibrates his reflexes to move the quarter across his fingers. Hank stands, strides next to Connor and there’s a moment when Hank doesn’t move. As if he’s contemplating something. Connor’s just about to tilt his head up to look at him when Hank find another spot he can touch, the top of Connor’s head. He cards his fingers through Connor’s hair and, oh, Connor had no idea this simple action could feel so nice. Connor does look up after a few seconds, knowing it’ll break the spell. But… he can’t help himself. There’s this pull, this strange and unanswerable drive, that leads Connor to look for Hank.

But everything ends eventually. And when it does, Connor’s anger crawls back, slow and steady and spiteful, until it’s renewed in a tooth-grinding full force. As if nothing broke his ire at all. 

Once Connor hears the telltale squeaking of Hank’s car from the parking lot, he pockets the quarter, walks to his closet, pushes aside the white button-ups he doesn’t wear anymore, and hits the wall, creating another hole. The movement sends thirium rushing down Connor’s back. How in the hell Connor wasn’t bleeding out when Gideon – 

Fuck. Who cares. It doesn’t matter.

The hole doesn’t help; he’s so angry now that he’s vibrating with it… It’s just

FUCK

He’s supposed to be the best android detective. Ever. The Best. Better than RK900 who was Made for Search and Destroy! Connor couldn’t see how Disgusting and DANGERous and DERANGED GIDEON WAS?!

Connor wants to scream. Last time he screamed into one of his pillows, his neighbor came – their LED blinking between red and yellow, a dance in comparison to Connor’s solid red – and knocked on his door. Same when Connor tried the mattress. 

There’s nothing to do. Nothing to fix this. Connor’s stuck. He’s fucking stuck and

…

If Connor was a better detective, Hank wouldn’t have seen the things Connor went through. 

As it stands now, Connor would anything, absolutely anything, for Gideon to have killed him in that basement. Wouldn’t that have been the kinder thing to do? Why did it have to be Hank that found Connor? Why did Connor hurt Hank like that? Connor would give anything to take Hank’s pain away.

If only Connor was better.


	6. Walls.

He only wanted the shoe box. 

Hank was due over any minute, sure, and Connor could’ve asked him. But the prevailing thought was, “Seriously? I can do this myself.” As if he needed help reaching a fucking box?

Markus called earlier. He asked about Connor so Connor could lie and say he was fine. As he didn’t actually call to ask about Connor, of course, Markus dived straight into what he was really calling about. Connor remembered what shoes he wore to that one banquet months ago, right? 

Normally, this would be an easy answer. Recall the memory from the exact time given and send the information of the store make model brand of shoe he was wearing. This was no longer the case, however, as his memories were still fragmented and difficult to place on a timeline, difficult to reach back and find what he was looking for, no matter how specific or mundane the memory.

He does remember where Hank put the shoebox, he’s standing right in front of it now, closet door wide open and taunting. He’ll give Markus the details once he has them, he says before hanging up. This wasn’t an abnormal ask – humans had strange ways of interacting with one another and this extended to their dealings with androids. Why a specific shoe from months ago mattered to a random dignitary didn’t actually matter – what mattered was the trading of the information itself. This was normal fare that Connor had dealt many times in the past over his ties, jackets, cuff links. Therefore, it’s not a problem. Therefore, it’ll be easy. Therefore, he shouldn’t just stand here, he should reach for the fucking thing.

After a grounding inhale Connor stretches, toes pointed and arms extended. He feels the crack before he hears it. Takes even longer for him to understand it. Especially as the sound sends him back into that dark space. Immobile. Tools in the hands of someone incompetent, cracking open his body like a shelled nut. 

He’s thrown out of that regressive mental state when his HUD blinks and blares THIRIUM LEVELS LOW. His insides, despite the opening now larger, are overheating. The only thing that could possibly help right now, at this moment, is to not freak out. Connor knows this, logically, but he’s afraid of going back to there. Even in his mind.

No.

Connor takes a deep breath in. 

And a slow breath out.

He repeats the process as he puts the shoebox on the bed, under the rooms central light, to take the picture.

It’s sent. 

The sense of accomplishment, even at something so small, is nice.

He’s at the refrigerator, carefully leaning down to get his thirium, when he gets a message from Markus.

Turns out that it wasn’t Connor’s shoes that the man was thinking about, but Simon’s.

Connor closes the refrigerator door and backs away from it, slower than what’s likely necessary. He thinks about the pillow on his bed, the mattress itself, the wall behind his unused shirts. All he wants, in this moment, is for something – Someone. – to hurt as badly as he does. That’s what he needs. 

Those thoughts circling and cycling and cyclical make perfect sense. Even when Hank steps in, complaining once again about Connor leaving the door unlocked, these thoughts are logical. They feel right.

Connor, as he’s told Hank time after time, unlocks the door when he knows Hank is coming over. There’s no way Hank doesn’t remember this; he’s not going senile as far as Connor can tell. A thought flashes by that Hank is most likely teasing. But, right now, Connor isn’t in the mood. He wants Hank, unreceptive, _**fatherly**_ Hank, to never step foot into his life again. Connor didn’t need any fucking help. He didn’t need anyone. He put _himself_ into this fucked up mess and he’ll dig himself out or let it bury him. No matter his decision, Hank needed no part of it.

“Leave, then.”

Hank scoffs, rolls his eyes. “What’s got your panties in a twist?” He has the gall to be _playful_ about it as he plops himself on the couch. His eyes find Connor’s as he pats the space next to him. 

Connor doesn’t move. He’s not going to take the bait. “I said, leave.”

Hank’s neck cranes forward, as if he can’t believe what he’s hearing.

“I know you understand me.”

“Whoa, whoa.” Hank stands slowly, palms facing Connor like a criminal caught. “If you’re pissed off in general or if it’s… something I did? We can talk about it.” That’s rich, coming from the man who put a gun to Connor’s head when he was only asking questions. “Best to get all that out in the open,” he takes a step towards Connor, “believe me.”

“I don’t need you here.”

Hank’s face echoes what Connor felt inside as he spoke those words.

“Con, tell me what’s wrong.”

“What happened is my fault. I don’t need—”

“Don’t you fucking start with that! I know all about self-hate, kid, and—” 

“I am **not —!**” The volume of Connor’s outburst startles Hank quiet. Connor wants Hank to know this, to hear this. To understand so he’ll leave Connor alone. “Don’t treat me like your child.”

Hank’s eyes narrow, his mouth opens. At first he’s looking at Connor like he’s expecting a big, “gotcha!” joke. But when nothing like that happens, Hank’s face falls. He’s turning pale. “Wait. You’re serious.”

“It’s…” painful, cruel, “demoralizing.”

“You think I treat you like my _child_?” Hank scoffs, “What—what the fuck gave you that idea? Because I’ve never once, not fucking _once_, thought of you as my—” Hank stops, shakes his head, “You want me out? Well, sorry to break it to you, but I’m not that easy to get rid of. Think of it as payback for you never getting off _my_ case.”

“If you’re meaning before my deviancy, then that was a result of my programming —”

“Oh, bullshit! Don’t you fucking say that. Don’t you dare fucking say that shit to me. Fuck, Connor, you gave a shit even when you weren’t supposed to! I swear you were deviant before you even knew it.”

The air, dense at the start of this, is now unyielding. Connor’s grateful that his back is turned away from Hank, as he’d certainly baby Connor about thirium intake. Questioning Connor on what he did wrong. 

“Connor,” Hank’s voice softened. Connor absolutely abhors it, his lip curls in disgust. Hank either doesn’t understand or isn’t reacting. “Has anyone told you what happened to you?”

What? Is he serious?

Connor laughs. It’s cruel, meant to maim. “I was **there**!” Connor shakes his head. Why is he surprised that Hank is patronizing him? “He placed a blocking device on me and used me for his art. What else is there to know?”

“He didn’t “place” an ABD on you. He didn’t “use you” for his fuckin’ art.” Hank’s lip quivers, albeit slightly, as he inhales. “He kidnapped and tortured you.”

Connor’s pulse quickens, heat amplifying, spilling more thirium down his back. He shook his head. “He—”

Hank doesn’t let him speak, “Gideon kidnapped you, Connor.” His voice is stern, final. “Then he tortured you.”

No one… no one had used those words before.

“I’m an alcoholic. Even when you were a _machine_ you never said that to me.” It’s Hank’s turn to laugh now, cutting quick and deep like Connor’s. “You know where I heard it? To my face and not whispered behind my back? In fucking therapy.”

Hank said he wanted to do better. That seeing androids have a chance at a new life made him feel like he should try. He said he wanted to be happy, for once. That he wanted to not bring Connor down. Connor told the truth, that Hank didn’t bring him down, that Connor simply didn’t know how to help. Once Hank made those steps himself and got help, Connor was over the moon – he was absolutely and terrifyingly thrilled. He asked Hank all about it, before Hank supplied it as freely as he does now. Every question Connor asked and every response from Hank was pulling teeth. Hank continuously said it was boring, stupid. But Connor said that it wasn’t, it couldn’t be. That Connor wanted to hear about Hank’s life and that this was a part of his life, and Connor was more than happy to hear. Even now that’s still true. Only now it’s pity. Hank is taking pity on what happened to Connor. Rather than hear it, rather than face it, Hank would rather talk about himself when before that was unbearable.

And what Hank said… it’s a fact, isn’t it? Connor never thought to put it in those terms. Even now, a year deviant, Connor had trouble placing humanity in himself. No wonder Gideon thought Connor a doll. 

Hank laughs, mirthless, “But why do I even tell you anything? Why do I fucking bother? It’s obvious and I’m too fucking stupid to see it, huh? You’re just humoring me.”

Connor blinks. He’s afraid before he truly understands why. “Wha-what?”

“I talk and you say nothing. I keep thinking “if he sees me open up, then maybe he’ll see that he can too. Maybe he’ll see how much I care about him.” But you’ve never wanted me around, right? You don’t talk **at all** and I just… I’ve told you everything.” Hank wipes his eyes, still staring at Connor. “I don’t think of you as my… as my son?! I never have! And I have no clue what I did to give you that idea. Connor, at the very least…” Hank’s heartrate spikes, his cheeks redden. He looks away. “I at least wanted you as a friend. But … I’m not even that to you, am I?”

Connor inhales, tries to gather his thoughts. Too many pop up at once. 

That’s not true – Hank means more to him that words can express – Hank is the reason why Connor deviated – He found humanity in Hank when everyone else around them was the worst version of themselves – Hank, even after everything, wanted so badly to see the best in androids – The best in Connor.

Connor opens his mouth, but Hank takes a step back. 

Too much time had passed. 

Hank assumed the worst. 

The door clicks closed. Connor’s HUD blares at him about thirium. He walks to the fridge in a daze. Opens the package without thinking. 

Connor knows immediately what he wants to do. He wants to take a walk to clear his head. Before all of this, that’s what he would have done. But he can’t move unless he orders more thirium, the last pouch is in his hands. He can’t talk to someone because the only person worth talking to Connor kicked out.

Connor’s not sure what his purpose is. What he’s even doing here. All he’s good for, even before his deviancy, is ruining things. He’s to blame for everything. For what happened to him, for Hank leaving, for Hank thinking Connor doesn’t care about him. 

He pulls out the one thing he’s kept on his person since it was given to him, his quarter. He’s memorized each dimple and slight imperfection on both sides, each rivet down the edges, the shapes and shadows of the petals and leaves. Even when the quarter moves across his fingers, he doesn’t calm. This feeling is fiery, it’s crushing, it’s sinking, nail biting into his palms and cutting into his synthskin.

It’s the anger that Connor’s already accustomed to, the kind that renders you unable to do anything. Unable to move. So seething and angry and self-hating that he only deserves to sit here and do nothing else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you can follow me on my twitter [goldenganjj](https://twitter.com/goldenganjj) for fic updates and fandom nonsense


	7. Steps.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's to the end of the fic!
> 
> Cheers ~

But that self-hating? That sitting around stewing in your own misery? That gets old fast. And, really, how is this different from his time in the basement? Connor isn’t _technically_ trapped any longer. 

(There’s a part of him – a rather large part that he abhors to acknowledge but it blisters inside of him, festering – that still thinks he deserves to do nothing, have nothing, be nothing. But that thought process is neither helpful nor logical. Beings, inorganic or otherwise, don’t exist to be stagnant. Right?)

Despite all these feelings, all bricked up and towering inside of him, the prevailing one is missing Hank. It’s been less than twelve hours. That’s pathetic.

Hank was moving on with his life and was more than happy to take Connor along for the ride. It was Connor who cut them apart, not Hank. And it’s that knowledge hurts right now more than the rest of it.

That reoccurring thought popped up yet again: that Connor can’t apologize, can’t go to Hank in any capacity, unless Connor also helped himself. It would be unfair given all that Hank had done to help himself. The only difference being that Hank was strong enough not to need someone like Connor did. Does. Even if Connor doesn’t think he deserves it, there’s no reason not to try.

It’s 8am the next morning when she arrives. It’s the earliest she could get here, Simon assured him. Connor wasn’t enthusiastic about her being human and not an android, but Simon promised she was the best and that she’s helped many androids like Connor. 

**| Dr. Zaveri, Kendra**  
**| PhD, LPC, NCC**  
**| Specializing in: Abuse, Trauma, PTSD**  
**| Born: 10/17/1988**

She’s polite. Firm. Even keeled. She sits on the lone chair while she motions for Connor to sit across from her on the couch.

At first Connor couldn’t wait for her to get here but now that she’s here, especially as making house-calls isn’t typical for any sort of therapist, Connor isn’t sure what he should be expecting. It’s nerve-wracking. Even watching her open her professional shoulder bag to retrieve a note pad made him feel off. The last time Connor saw physical papers was when he worked at the DPD. She crosses her legs, sets the notepad on her lap, clicks the pen, straightens her back, rolls her shoulders to touch the chair, and looks at Connor. Just his face. 

Niceties and introductions lived when he opened the door, now she cut straight to business. “What are you hoping to gain out of my being here?”

Connor blinks. He isn’t sure how to start, even though he ran numerous preconstructions on this conversation. But doing that, he realizes, wasn’t really in preparation but to calm himself. She’s an unknown entity, and Connor has learned how wrong he can be about people, about their intentions.

He isn’t sure what Simon told her – or if he told her anything at all – so Connor decides it’s best to be plain. “I was kidnapped.” He wishes he had something to look at other than the humming refrigerator, peeling walls, or sad carpeting. Although, at the moment, it was better than looking at her. “And tortured.”

While certainly strange to say so matter-of-factly, those words simultaneously burn a hole on his tongue and set his shoulders weightless. He hadn’t admitted any of this, with those exact words, out loud or even in his own mind. Speaking them? It felt a little bit like releasing them. Letting the air out of the heaviness in his chest. Not a lot, of course, but enough.

His eyes find her when she doesn’t speak. Her face remains unchanged. It’s not stern but not impolite. Connor knows this technique all too well. Silence makes people fill in the blank, maybe say something they normally wouldn’t. Even though he knows this for a fact, he decides it’s best to accommodate. “It’s not something I understood until my… friend… told me.”

She nods, slowly blinks. As far as Connor can tell, she still hasn’t written anything down.

“Others… ignored that? Couldn’t say it? I’m not sure. But, hearing it, I realized he’s right. And I didn’t… I don’t know what to do.”

He hears his shaky inhale, foreign given his android anatomy, as she writes on her notepad. She doesn’t speak.

Connor continues, “I want… I want to not be mad.”

“Who are you mad at?”

Not “why?” Not “what?” Which event or situation made you feel this way?

Well, why dance around it? 

“I’m… it’s at myself.”

“You’re mad at yourself. Why?”

Connor looks away. He’s not leaving the situation but he’s trying to recall. It’s human and unnecessary for him, he knows. It does provide a small comfort, which is the reason humans do it in the first place. “I hurt the people,” the person, “I care about. And that’s my fault.”

Dr. Zaveri inhales, Connor’s eyes dart to her. “I can tell you that what happened to you wasn’t your fault. I can repeat the fact all day and all night, for years.” Her features soften just enough for Connor to notice. “Me telling you isn’t the same as you understanding that, though.”

It’s true, he knows, but that doesn’t leave him filled with confidence.

She continues, “The first thing that needs to happen is getting to a place where you can believe that. Even minutely.”

From there, Dr. Zaveri informs him of steps he can take – that they can take together. Having a list, even as oversimplified as they are, settles a familiar feeling in his mind. Connor was built to accomplish missions. What is a task but a synonym for mission, after all? 

“It’s not only androids who benefit from lists, Connor.” She says with a kind smile, “They help put the world in order for many people. Humans and androids aren’t as different as we are led to believe.”

**Step One**

“Let’s find a way for you to get out and interact with others.”

Connor recalls a technician mentioning an apparatus that’ll help pocket and then redistribute the thirium back into his body. It wasn’t a readymade piece, however, this would be something of their own design that would take time to complete.

“If they offered, then they want to help.”

Connor doesn’t think that’s true. Or, rather, he doesn’t think that’s _always_ true. But she didn’t say it was _always_ true, just that this person wanted to help. Judging by that particular technicians’ actions, that might be closer to the truth.

It’s depressing how little effort the apparatus is to put together. No more than a fanny pack on Connor’s side and looks as much. “So I thought of like a colostomy bag, right? Only like it’s thirium so it needs to be redistributed back into your body. So I was like “dude, make the bag out of android veins”, like one big ole vein, so it circles back instead of collects.”

Connor’s immediate reaction is to be critical. It was this easy? Seriously? Why did you make it sound so difficult? Connor recalls the memory and sees that, no, they didn’t. He was the one who was unreceptive.

Instead, Connor thanks him. It’s nice to make someone smile.

The technician, Herbert, explains how to care for it and when to change it out (he made three extra pouches and said to call if Connor ever needed more). 

It’s so invigorating to have the capability to have something to accomplish _right now_ that he does: the task of leaving the apartment. Of course, nothing is that simple. He was in such a frenzy that he wore himself out getting everything ready. He’s disappointed, obviously, but the knowledge that he got everything he needed together without a quart of thirium spilling out of his back? He decides to take it as a positive, even though that his isn’t his first instinct. At all. So, bright side, at least he’s ready when he does want to leave.

**Step Two**

“Once that’s taken care of, you should find a support group you like. I have a couple options right here.”

Leaving the apartment is a mistake. Anything could go wrong. Sure, Connor filled his backpack to capacity with extra thirium and replacement parts for, what he decided to call, his “side bag” and a change of clothes. Being covered in thirium around other androids, even minimally, was a thought Connor couldn’t bear. 

But, shit, was an android carrying around a bag cause for concern? Would others say something? Call him out? 

Entering the bus, thirium beating high, throat closing at the fear, he saw others like himself. Plus, no one paid him any attention. Or, if they did, Connor didn’t seem different from anyone else. There were even androids with LEDs still intact, just like him. 

The meeting itself was reminiscent of the shows he watched with Hank. Well, not really. And it was for the exact reasons Hank said, “You know, this right here? It’s all bullshit. People aren’t combative and wanna start fights and shit. Worst case scenario? People lying about their recovery. Usually because it’s state mandated and they’re not there on their own or whatever. It’s mainly them wasting their time and not mine, you know?” The one truth? They do sit in a circle. But. It’s in an empty classroom in a community college and not in a church.

While the meeting is for “Androids in Recovery,” there are all types here. Some were domestic abuse victims, most at the hands of humans. Some were at the processing plant with the other androids, waiting to be destroyed, the two in group were next in line before Warren called it all off. 

Connor didn’t have someone _quite_ like him in terms of exact experience – how many androids were kidnapped and tortured and _not_ killed? – but the things they said… he understood. The loneliness. The wanting to change but hating help, not understanding who should and would help. Why this happened? The mourning of their previous lives, wishing that life was still as easy as “follow your programming.”

There was one android in particular, an AJ700 named Sandy, who Connor felt an easy rapport growing. At their break, ten minutes before they sat back down to do a “group exercise,” she introduced herself. As if they all didn’t at the beginning of their meeting.

He waits for Sandy to call him “Deviant Hunter”. She doesn’t. That being said, the other androids definitely know who he is and keep a wide berth. Connor decides to mention this to her because… there’s no way she doesn’t know. Right?

“I mean, duh,” Sandy shrugs, nonplused. “But that doesn’t mean I _know_ you.”

Connor isn’t sure what to make of that.

**Step Three**

“Then make friends. Maintain a social life.”

With Sandy’s easy interactions, other androids warm up to Connor. It’s slow going at first but then he’s invited out with them and often.

But are they his friends? How do you figure that out? Do you ask? He brings this up at Dr. Zaveri’s office. “If it’s something you’re unsure of, then there’s no harm in asking.” 

Again, Connor isn’t sure if that’s true. 

While he was made to feel out of place when he worked at the DPD and with Jericho, he does feel comfortable in group. While it was bristly at first, his peers don’t seem to hold those same preconceived notions. He wasn’t glared at, made fun of, or ignored.

So, he asks.

Over the course of a few months, Connor’s apartment becomes the central location for the five of them – Sandy, Danneel, Carrie, John, and Connor – to meet up. 

Sandy’s great at fixing things. And, needless to say, there’s plenty she doesn’t like about Connor’s place. Well, he’s sure she’d outright say “hate.” Despite Connor’s protests – even with his side bag he can’t do much physical labor – she’s been fixing the place up. One day she took Connor with her to pick out paint because “those walls are giving me anxiety.” There was only so much she could do, it was a lot like “putting lipstick on a pig” as she put it, but it did help. The space is inviting, looks cleaner, and it’s his. He made sure she knows how grateful he is. She’s the type to roll her eyes and act like it isn’t a big deal, but he’s got the feeling they both know it is.

Danneel, who works at a refurbished electronics store, came by with a “broken” television. In all actuality, it was an old tube TV that no one would pick up, even for free. They gave Connor a hard time when they first walked in, “Jeez, Connor! I know you’re a police android, but you honestly don’t know how to host guests?” They’re all smiles, so they’re not making fun of him. Honestly, it reminds Connor of Hank’s jibes. Connor pats Danneel on the shoulder and tells them, simply, “I don’t.” They get a kick out of that.

Carrie, who works at an android shelter, brings over a table with six chairs. The shelter sells or gives away any furniture they find or purchase. So, naturally, Carrie bought it. This both doesn’t surprise Connor and makes his stomach compartment malfunction momentarily. She waves it off, as she does with most things, something about him hosting the group of them without asking for anything. Later, she brings by the board games she’s been talking about, “now that we have a table and all!” She used to play these sorts of games with the child she took care of, one of the pieces in her old life that brought her happiness. The games begin to stack in the apartments cracking build-in shelving. Bright colors and glossy packaging bringing light to these bare walls. 

Until John, who’s now training at the Detroit Zoo, brings over his paintings. Androids still don’t require classical training – i.e. college degrees and courses – so he’s taking advantage of that. John has said he doesn’t need breaks, even though they all tell him he should try, so he met in the middle. He paints the animals, the habitats. He’s hung a few of them up around the apartment. No preamble. Connor knows him better than to make a big deal about it, so Connor meets him halfway with a “thank you” while everyone is preoccupied. Connor more than means it.

He talks to them about Hank all the time, to the point where his friends would tease him. “Lemme guess, hm, Hank said that?” They would say before Connor would finish his sentence. None of them pried, even if they wanted to. Well, no more than, “When are we gonna meet this Hank you keep talking about?” And Connor would clam up, never telling them that he hadn’t spoken to him in any capacity in

Three months, eight days, four hours, and fifty-two minutes. 

Not that he was counting.

(Honestly? Connor is afraid of talking to Hank again. It’s something him and Dr. Zaveri keep coming back to. She says Connor’s is making the situation bigger than it really is. Either Hank will say no or he’ll say yes. The only way to tell is to ask – even with world-class preconstruction capabilities, sadly – to know for certain what will happen.)

And then, at the end of the night, his friends would leave to their own lives. But, in so many ways, they were still here. Little pieces of them and their lives left behind. In it all, Connor had his own space. Sure it was drab – despite the repairs and new paint, yes – and dreary, but it was his home now. 

Sandy was the last one out the door when Connor received a message.

The sender immediately gave him pause.

It was CyberLife but not the usual promotional email. No, this was from a specific account – a technician’s account.

Reading it Connor immediately want to bolt out the door and tell—

He wishes he thought of Sandy. Or John. Or Danneel. Or Carrie. But he didn’t. Not at first, anyway, the first person he wanted to tell was

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> click "next chapter" for the obvious answer ;p


	8. Piece by Piece.

Hank.

Connor’s shaking at the news. And the mere _idea_ of calling Hank. Before he really thinks about it, he’s going over the pros and cons of calling Hank at 9pm, nearly 10pm, and how upset he’d be at the lateness. Connor hopes, no he figures, that he’ll go to voicemail as Hank is most likely busy. He usually didn’t have Thursdays off, after all.

What Connor failed to realize is that, for the most part, Hank called Connor and not the other way around. Hank also doesn’t have a “three ring” protocol as to not startle the caller. No, after the first ring, Hank answers.

“Connor?” Hank gasps into the phone. At first Connor has difficulty placing what saying his name like that meant? Was he in a rush? Was he surprised?

It’s difficult to get the words out, at first. Especially when his plan on how to start the conversation vanished in his panic. Shit, does he apologize? Does he say he misses him? No no, fuck – that’s too much. Eventually his mouth produces, “They found a replacement piece,” and Hank sounds as thrilled as he feels.

Connor sets the appointment up for as soon as they’d have him. And, luckily, there was an opening for the very next morning. 9am. He texts Hank the time and, just like he said on the phone, he sends,

**Lt. Hank Anderson | see you then**

He isn’t sure what to think of this text, of this situation in general. Hank sounded happy on the phone. As if it hasn’t been months since they last spoke… 

“Ah, don’t worry. That’s adult friendships for you. You don’t talk for a long time and then you do. It’s no big.”

If Connor wasn’t a state-of-the-art android detective, he might take Hank’s speech at face value. Thing is, of course, is that he _is_ a state-of-the-art android detective. So. He knows Hank’s heartrate is elevated. He knows Hank’s more jittery than his usual, well, not at all. Connor empathizes as he’s not much better off. In fact, he’s having trouble assessing the data of this encounter to extrapolate what any of this means. 

Despite all of this… It’s comfortable sitting next to Hank. If he closes his eyes, it’s easier to imagine they’re on Hank’s couch. As if no time passed at all. It’s not difficult as Hank still smells the same, earthy and warm spice; the same level of heat rolls off him in this proximity; and the beating of his heart, even quickened as it is, is as soothing as before.

With an inhale, Connor decides to break this new silence.

“Hank, I—” “You seem to be doing better.”

They turn to one another, quick in their shock of speaking at the same time. Connor knows it’s proper to turn away but he doesn’t want to. Neither does Hank. And, oh, looking at his eyes now, in real life and not a saved picture? It’s different. A good different. The kind that produces random and harmless errors in his systems. 

“You too, Hank.” He doesn’t realize he’s smiling until Hank mirrors his expression. They’re alone in the waiting room, so they have privacy, which is nice considering how the air seemed to evolve and swirl around them. “You look good,” and Connor means it in every sense. While the larger picture of Hank is the same, there’s little pieces that indicate change. Like the grey that’s absent around his eyes, indicating more sleep. His skin is clearer, as he’s drinking more water and less alcohol. His hair is not only shinier but longer, if the size of the bun on the back of his head is any indicator. It looks really nice. _He_ looks really nice.

Hank grumbles at Connor’s compliment, pink rising to his cheeks.

“I’m sorry, I…” Even though the room is empty, perhaps this isn’t the place but he needs to say it. “You were right. My behavior wasn’t fair. I just… felt like I was burdening you. I hope we’re….” Connor waits until Hank meets his eyes, “At least friends.”

Time passes between them. It’s slow, sticky, immoveable. They’re simply staring at one another but Connor feels this moment trapped in amber. Connor can spot each flick of grey and light green in Hank’s eyes which, before this very moment, he didn’t know was there. Hank’s staring too but there’s no telling what he sees in Connor. The thought makes Connor feel a bit woozy. And to think, most before a surgery would be woozy from the anxiety of the impending procedure.

The clock across the room ticks and Hank’s mouth opens. But, before he gets a chance to speak, he’s interrupted by, “Connor? We’re ready for you.”

Hank stands before Connor and offers his hand, just like he did when he helped Connor exit the auto-taxi, and helps him up. It isn’t a “you can’t do this” gesture but instead a way of showing that he cares. Connor sees that now. He’s learned that there are more ways to show affection, friendly or familial or… romantic, than “quality time.” 

There’s a hole.

Connor knows it’s there as soon as he wakes up.

But it doesn’t… it isn’t the same as before. 

It’s not a wide, empty space like before but… the best way he can think to describe it is an itch.

The technicians say he’s healed. There will always be a slight opening in his spinal column, but eventually his synthskin would close over it. He can do more now. Not the same as before everything changed but far better than when he walked in here hours ago.

“So… like a scar?” Hank supplies.

Herbert, one of the technicians Connor specifically requested, answered, “Yea, man! That’s like pretty close to what it’d be in a human, for sure.” Hank raises his eyebrows, seeming in surprise that he got it right. “It’s like getting stitches afterwards, yea? You can’t move around a whole lot for a while. Then in like no time at all you totally can! You’re gonna have _way_ more mobility in a few days, Connor dude, it’s gonna be great.”

Connor makes a note to tell Herbert about his recovery. Especially to thank him.

Now that they’re outside, Connor realizes he doesn’t have a plan. When he asked Hank to be here that’s… well… that’s all he asked. Fuck, that was stupid. 

Hank throws him a lifeline, “If you’re up for it, Sumo misses you.”

Of course, “I’d like that.” He feels like his smile is overtaking his face, but he can’t stop it. Plus, what was wrong with being happy in this situation? Even if Hank doesn’t feel the same as Connor, surely Hank would never fault him for his happiness.

Hank makes a weird, almost squeaking noise when he sees Connor’s reaction. Connor can’t help but blink and wonder what went wrong. Was Hank feeling okay? “I am! I’m um I’m fine I just… Haven’t seen you smile like _that_ and.” He clears his throat as his face reddens, eyes looking away to focus on hailing an auto-taxi.

Belle Isle isn’t what it used to be, more hustle and bustle of humans and androids alike, so there’s always at least one auto-taxi driving around the entrance. In this instant, that feels like a save as Connor isn’t sure what to say at Hank’s confession. Despite Hank’s reaction moments ago, he still holds Connor’s elbow to guide him into the auto-taxi.

When Hank closes the door, Connor makes the impetuous decision to not move all the way to the other side so he’s seated in the middle. Maybe it’s a stupid move, but it feels right in the moment. If Hank notices, he doesn’t say anything about it. And, oh, he’s so warm at this proximity. Connor has been this close to Hank less than a handful of times, but it still manages to feel familiar. To feel safe.

Their eyes meet, same as they have all day. But now, more than ever, there’s a pull that threatens to draw Connor even closer to Hank. It’s beating in his thirium, in his mind, that all he wants is to touch Hank without any sort of familial barrier. The impetuous streak continues as Connor positions himself even closer. What he was attempting was a hug but Hank… 

Hank kisses him.

Connor gasps and Hank pulls back, face furrowed in worry. “Fuck that was stupid you just got done with surgery and I’m all in your face and –”

Now that he’s prepared, he relaxes against Hank. Lips soft and slow and pliable against Hank’s. An arm drawing Hank even closer against his chest. It’s like nothing Connor had felt before and it wasn’t anything like he expected as the idea of kissing never sounded appealing. And, well, maybe it isn’t. Maybe it’s about _who_ you’re kissing rather than the act itself. His lips, his fingertips, his thirium pump are buzzing with all the emotions and sensations that are skyrocketing higher than he ever thought possible. When Hank’s lips part and they breathe each other’s air, which, again, doesn’t sound appealing but it’s so incredibly intimate, Connor’s overwhelmed. He sighs, causing Hank to part. 

Not far, but just enough to speak. “That’s not a familial kiss… right?”

Connor can’t help it, he laughs. Hank’s smiling. This close Connor can see each crease in the corner of Hank’s eyes, the random blonde hairs hiding in the hair on his beard, and the gap between his two front teeth that is so handsome and so Hank.

Hank’s eyes are all over Connor’s features as well. His smile fades but his eyes are still smiling just as bright. When a hand cups Connor’s cheek, his thumb caressing Connor’s cheekbone, Connor knows this isn’t the first time Hank has touched him like this. He knows how similar it is to when Hank found him in that basement. How kind his eyes were then mirrors now. Only Hank isn’t on the verge of tears now. He looks…

“I’ve never seen you so happy before,” because he hasn’t and he never dreamed he’d get to see Hank like this. Especially not because of him.

Hank grins, warmly with kind eyes melting into Connor’s. “It’s you.”

It

It’s

…

Connor swears his thirium stills in his veins, turned icy at the words. 

Those two simple words send Connor back in darkness, naked in front of a floor length mirror, strung to the ceiling.

Connor swallows. He knows… he knows he’s never told Hank what exactly happened in the basement and never the exact words that man used. 

Hank’s looking a bit worried at Connor’s reaction but Connor… he doesn’t know if he can speak on it right now. It’s not Hank’s fault and, fuck, he just wants to kiss him again.

So, he does. Hank seems to forget until they arrive at his house.

They settle in on the couch once Hank removes his and Connor’s coat. This, too, is something Hank has done before but Connor never thought on it. The act itself isn’t a romantic gesture, Connor doesn’t think, but that look in his eyes… Connor looks back and feels terribly dense about the past. Maybe it wasn’t _flashing neon sign_ obvious but if Connor had asked –

Well, no reason to get upset about the past.

What’s done is done. At least he’s here now.

Sumo makes room for himself on the couch, nestled snuggly between them. Connor doubts it’s comfortable for the large dog but it’s certain that he’s missed Connor. Pawing at him and kissing him when Connor’s hand stops petting or scratching. There’s just so much to catch Hank up on! And questions give Connor pause. While he knows Hank wasn’t around these past months, that isn’t… normal! He’s used to the pair of them being in each other’s orbit. The thought, “does Hank know?” was a silly one but it popped up a lot. And there’s so much to fill him in on. Dr. Zaveri and all her help, the group she found for him and how that’s been, and all the friends he’s made there. About Sandy and her new work as a contractor – there’s more androids interested and good at the work than one might expect. About Danneel’s interest in the Gears, how fascinating they find sports because “humans are so fallible” which Hank gets a kick out of. About Carrie bringing a new board or card game nearly every time they met together, the last one being a game about werewolves and villagers. About how despite everyone else not playing these games that John would win. How John says it’s because he “tries not to pay too much attention.” Connor doesn’t know how that makes sense, or even if he’s telling the truth, but Hank swears he gets it and that he’ll “have to try it sometime.” They’ve never played a game together, as such, but Connor’s sure he’d let Hank win.

At some point in their conversation, Sumo started snoring. Once he woke himself up with a loud enough snort, he jumps down from the couch and pads sleepily to his bed. Hank stands with that, eyes never leaving Connor as he says, “Wanna go to bed too?” Hank’s ears turn pink, as he makes a startled noise and looks away, “I meant talking in there um it might be more comfortable…” Hank’s rubbing the back of his neck as his face dips into the deepest blush Connor has ever seen on him. 

It takes longer than it should for Connor to fully understand Hank’s embarrassment. He decides not to mention or dwell on it, simply standing and saying, “Sure,” with a small smile.

The bedroom hasn’t changed at all. Hank isn’t a believer in making the bed or keeping the dirty clothes off the floor. He’s still blushing, trying to clean as he walks through the room, “Sorry it’s so—”

“Hank,” Connor stops him, hand on his arm, “Don’t worry about it.”

Hank sighs, nods. 

They start off sitting on the bed, Connor knows this for a fact. After more discussion, however, that changes. Somewhere between Hank asking about group – “Do you sit in a circle of androids?” which made Connor laugh – to Hank asking what Connor has said about Hank to his friends – Connor feels guilty because, yes, he _has_ talked about Hank but it’s… embarrassing! Hank spills, “I mean, I talk about you all the time.” And Connor…. He has no idea what to feel about that! – they find themselves laying on the bed.

There’s a pause, then. Their eyes are locked. Connor isn’t sure what to do.

Hank moves his hand to Connor’s shoulder, his eyes smoldering in the low light and in expression. Connor finds himself swallowing, so nervous about being here, so close to Hank and so vulnerable. He’s so used to keeping his guard up around everyone. Or, well, he used to be. Now with his new friends, he isn’t. But with Hank? Letting his guard down… He catastrophized it so much when in reality…

Connor moves, closing the space between them, touching nose to nose. Hank’s eyes are wide, almost worried, until Connor settles in. He runs his fingers through Hank’s beard leaving Hank chuckling deep. It rumbles throughout Connor’s body and, oh, he shivers, inhaling the scent of Hank deep in his android approximation of lungs.

“I can’t believe you’re really here.”

Connor blinks. “Here?”

“With me. Like this.”

When their lips meet, Connor groans, melting into Hank’s warm embrace. One of Hank’s hands slide to Connor’s lower back, right where that empty space is.

_“If you’re able, take it and make it yours, instead.”_ The group counselor said that to Carrie. She explained how she missed playing board games but she was also worried that they’d remind her of her past. Connor didn’t get it then, not really. But now?

Hank parts, lips far enough away from Connor’s to speak, and he says, “It’s you.”

Maybe one day he’ll tell Hank why those words hurt. No, he’s sure he will. But right now? He doesn’t want that to belong in the past. To a man who didn’t give a shit about Connor. To a time Connor would rather forget. In a space filled with darkness and dread.

Couldn’t it be Hank’s instead? Couldn’t it be his? Theirs?

“It’s you.” Connor kisses the cheeks of Hank’s smiling face and hopes they don’t have to leave this bed anytime soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY LOOK IT'S FINALLY DONE!
> 
> Thank you so much to my internet family on Twitter Jericho <3 You guys have helped me in more ways than you can ever know! Special shout to [shadraquarium](https://twitter.com/raviquarium) for working on this fic with me! You fucking rock ~ 
> 
> AND THANK YOU FOR YOUR COMMENTS! Seriously, I've been so shocked at what y'all have sent me. I feel like my hard work on this fic really does show :D
> 
> you can follow me on my twitter [goldenganjj](https://twitter.com/goldenganjj) for fic updates and fandom nonsense

**Author's Note:**

> [HCRBB Directory](https://hankconrbb.wordpress.com)


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